


Beyond the Winter

by Synthpop



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synthpop/pseuds/Synthpop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a month before Christmas and all through the field, the Avengers are stirring—but mostly, the shield.</p>
<p>Or, alternatively: searching for the evasive Winter Soldier takes its toll on Steve, and the (new!) Avengers take turns trying to cheer him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Widow

“What’s the matter, Cap? Was it not cold in New York back in 1945? I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

Steve groans and pulls his scarf up so that it covers his freezing lips. The tranquil atmosphere that had been so pleasantly still during his morning walk has been compromised, broken by the chime of someone else’s pesky laughter. “I’ve been out of the ice for nearly four years now. You can stop with the old man jokes, already.”

Oh, he can practically hear the smirk in that impish voice of hers. Natasha jogs so that her step catches up to his, her boots padding softly in the fallen snow. Once she reaches his side, she gives him a light jostle with her elbow. “I would think that being stuck in the ice for so long would give you some sort of resistance to the cold. Or does it bring back bad memories?”

“Four years. Four years, and I can’t catch a break.” He huffs a breath, and it dances from his mouth in white, wispy clouds. He pauses and meets her eyes, smiling kindly. “What can I help you with, Natasha?”

She laughs and holds up her arms in a shrug. She is dressed in black, as usual: black boots, black jacket, black beanie… she still looks fashionable, despite the chill in the air and the snow crunching beneath her feet. “Just saying hello, Steve. It’s a nice day out for a walk, isn’t it? Snow’s pretty.”

“It’s very nice. It’s been falling for a few days now, hasn’t it?” Steve’s trudging is leaving footprints behind him, deep and wide. Natasha’s prints are lighter, thinner, though they are still in line with his. “Makes you forget about what’s going on outside this facility, doesn’t it?”

Natasha makes a small clicking sound with her tongue. “You’re right about that. But hey, it’s nice to sit back and relax every once in a while, don’t you think? Take a deep breath, set things aside, procrastinate… it’s healthy, even for us.”

“Are you trying to imply something, Nat?”

“Hmm, maybe.” She raises a gloved hand to her chin and strokes it, like one would when pondering a deep, philosophical question. “You’re pale, Steve. You look like you could use some rest. The team is tired, too, although I know nobody has the gall to admit it. I think we could maybe cool down with the training for a bit, don’t you? As an early present. Christmas is only a month away, after all.”

Steve stops in his tracks, and then turns towards her fully. “Justice never rests,” he says, cheesily. He is only half-joking.

Natasha watches him, her guard very careful. She reads him like a book, as per usual. “I know that you’re worried about him,” she tries, very gently. “We all are. But the contract with Stark—”

Steve raises a hand and lowers his head, cutting her off. Snowflakes swirl around their legs and waltz across his vision—has it been falling this whole time, he wonders? “It doesn’t matter right now,” he manages, and only looks up when he is confident in his forced smile. “Right now, he’s gone. That’s just a fact. It’s not your business, not Avengers business, not Tony’s—it’s mine. Okay?”

She wants to press further—Steve can tell by the pursing of her lips and the staunch flare behind her emerald eyes—but she chooses not to pry. She respects his privacy that much: although she has the power to intimidate information out of Sam or swindle information from anyone still supporting SHIELD, she does not. She knows that, beyond his desire for closure, he doesn’t want to get anybody involved. He loves that about her.

Natasha senses the tension in the void between them and sighs, “Sorry. I get it. I’ll keep my nose out of this one.” She shrugs her shoulders, as if in defeat.

She isn’t hurt, at least. Of course not. Sam would bristle when Steve would snap at him, but Natasha—she was a rock, a guardian. He admires that, too. His smile softens, becoming the slightest bit more sincere.

“It’s fine,” he mouths, but doesn’t know if he should say anything more. He doesn’t know what  _to_  say. The spoiled mood is thick enough to swallow any other words that might slither out of his mouth.

Luckily, Natasha is more agile than he, and she is back to her teasing jests in an instant. “I really am serious about the break, though. I think you need the chance to lighten up. C’mon, wouldn’t it be fun to take a vacation? Get out of this miserable snow and go somewhere tropical, maybe?”

Steve laughs, and he feels the warmth return to his lips and cheeks. “Weren’t we just complimenting the snow?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess. It has its charms.” She stares down at the ground and smirks, like a wicked thought had passed through her mind. “You can rest without needing to go anywhere. You just need to learn how to loosen up, right where you are. Learn to live a little. Find your Zen—and ‘let it go,’ if you catch my drift.”

Steve raises his brows at her and is about to ask if that was a reference to something, when Natasha suddenly reels back on her heels and falls back into the snow with a wet-sounding crunch.

Worry and fear are the first emotions that grip him. “Natasha?” he calls in a blind panic, hurrying to her side. He kneels down into the cold and searches her for any signs of injury, but to no avail. The only thing that manages to give her ploy away is the awful, fiendish grin on her lips.

“What’s wrong? Never seen a girl make a snow angel before?” Her arms and legs, spread apart like the points of a star, begin to move back and forth and fan the inches of snow away. It clings to her, sinks into her clothes, dampening them in dark splotches.

He stares down at her, incredulously. “A trained assassin, making snow angels? Did someone put you up to this?”

“Oh, learn to live a little, Steve!” She cackles, and then reaches up to ball her hands in the front of his heavy jacket. Before he can react, he is pulled face-first onto the ground beside her. He could most definitely out-power her, if he were so inclined, but she had taken him by surprise (yes, that’s definitely it!)—plus, it’s Nat. He isn’t going to wrestle with her—not here, anyway.

Even so, ending up with his face in the dirt is not exactly pleasurable.

He sits up and has to push some snow out of his mouth with his tongue in a feeble attempt to cleanse himself of the bitter flavor of pure  _ice_. It dribbles down his bluing lips and chin, shooting pain up and down his nerves. Natasha is snickering, looking far too pleased with herself.

“What the hell, Nat—it’s freezing!” He wraps his arms around himself and rubs his sides, although his butt remains firmly on the ground.

“That super serum of yours doesn’t help with the cold? That’s tragic. Or are you just being a baby?” Natasha settles back into the snow and continues to wave her arms and legs. “My angel is prettier than yours, by the way. Yours looks terrifying.”

Steve glances behind him. An outline of his body is imprinted on the snow from where he had fallen. It does, indeed, look a bit jarring: the humanoid shape is eerily startling against the sleek, unblemished skin of white. He frowns and then quirks a brow.

“Is that a challenge?” he asks.

“Ha,  _no_. I already know that you have no hope in matching the incredible prowess of my awesome snow-angel-making abilities.”

He scoffed. “We’ll see about that.” He scoots over towards the side of the path with a patch of thicker snow cover, and then flops down onto the ground. The cold chills him through his clothes, pinching him down to the bone—and yet, it does not faze him. He mimics the motion Nat had done, recalling long-forgotten memories of Brooklyn winters, of watercolor images of frozen lakes and the earthy scent of dusty pine and the chiming giggling of childhood, of Bucky’s high-spirited laughter—

“Would you look at that? You’re a natural!” Natasha has moved to stand above him, looking down. The gray light from the rolling clouds overhead mutes her red curls and black clothes. “You could put all the little kiddies to shame.”

Steve sits up and looks back at his work. He made the wings a bit too wide, he thinks, but they get the point across. It’s odd to see such a  _large_  snow angel, considering it’s a child’s pastime, but it is still… well, cute. That is the only word he can think to describe it.

“I’ve had practice,” says he. Nat offers a hand to him and he takes it, pulling himself up. He is careful not to mar his creation as he steps out of it.

She helps brush the snow off of his back and his ass, although she springs away innocently when he gives her a suspicious look. “Really? You’ll have to tell me all about it sometime,” she sings, eyes bright. “You’re going to have a lot of time, since we’re cutting back on training exercises.  _Right_?”

He raises his head, high. “I thought I was the boss.”

“Of course you are. I’m just giving you some very sound advice.” She wipes the still-clinging snow away from the back of her arms and legs. “If you work them too hard, they’re gonna get antsy. Especially people like Wanda and Scott— _especially_ Scott. And no, that’s not just an ant pun.”

He knows that her concern runs deeper than just looking out for the welfare of the team, or feeling obligated to give them some sort of Christmas miracle. It’s about Bucky, and it’s most definitely about Tony, and about the well-being of the Initiative as a whole. He needs to be gentle and keep the peace: it’s good strategy to  _act_  like the good guy, and Natasha knows this. She has his back.

Steve stays quiet for a few seconds, contemplating the suggestion. She’s right, of course—she usually is.

“I guess we could use a break,” he mumbles, and he is rewarded with a radiant smile. “Consider it a vacation. Although, I swear to God—if there’s an alien invasion and I can’t contact anyone, I’m going to have  _words_. Also, I don’t want any more interviews or media nonsense.” Certainly not with Tony (and the media’s fascination with Tony) looming over their heads.

“You got it, Captain,” Natasha replies, and gives him a wink. “They’ll be happy to hear that, I promise you.” She reaches out and pats his arm with the back of her hand. “You should take a vacation too, while you’re at it. There are always people working—it’s not like you have to be on top of everything all the time.”

He appreciates her kindness, but he can’t agree with it. Not in a world full of mutants and geniuses—he couldn’t just “take a break.” Who does she think he is?  _What_  does she think he is?

Despite his misgivings, he has enough strength within him to offer her a tired smile. “Yes, ma’am,” he says with an exasperated, if not warm, breath of a sigh. “I guess I’ll just stick to making snow angels, in the meantime.”

“That’a boy.” And then she beams again, softer, kinder. She walks, and beckons for Steve to follow. She’ll let them know right away, she tells him—all he needs to do is take a good, long rest.

He doesn’t exactly find that easy to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD, the stumbling beginnings of my magnum opus of self-indulgence: winter fluff written in the 105 degree summer and the new Avengers being cute. You can read this entire fic as either platonic or poly -- I was aiming for poly, in an everybody-is-in-love-with-Steve-and-some-with-each-other-but-he's-only-half-aware-of-it kind of way, but nobody officially makes out with one another, soooo whatever. 
> 
> So, uh, there are going to be seven mini, kind-of-connected scenes in this fic, one for Steve and each Avenger plus one super-special bonus! That translates into seven chapters. I could combine all the scenes into one, I suppose, but I tend to get intimidated by and refuse to read anything-above-10000-word things that only have one chapter, so… I assume at least some other people do, too. Also, I am a slow-ass proofreader, and I like chunks.
> 
> Unbeta'd, but thank you for reading, anyway! Since this is being updated six more times, feel free to point out anything obviously wrong or icky~ thank you so much, again!


	2. Ant-Man

When Steve had said “vacation,” he had meant it as an invitation for the Avengers to _go_ places. Go _on_ vacation… like normal people. He hadn’t meant this—no way in hell. Not only is this a complete breach of security, but it is _dangerous_. Ridiculous. _Stupid_.

He doesn’t want to blow up in front of a little girl, though—especially not one who’s staring up at him with her mouth agape, like she is in the presence of an angel.

“Captain!” Scott turns around from the kitchen counter: he’s wearing a pink apron that has a witty phrase on it, although its punchline is obscured by a layer of caked-on flour. White smears of powdery sugar stick to his arms, and dough is dabbed at the corners of his mouth (a tell-tale sign that he had been sneaking samples when he really shouldn’t have been). “Hey there! Smells pretty good, right? There’s a batch of cookies in the oven—if you stick around for a couple more minutes, you can have one.”

The little girl’s attention is drawn away from Steve at the mention of cookies. “Daddy! They were supposed to be a surprise!” She frowns, embarrassed, and disapprovingly tugs at her father’s shirt.

Scott glances down at her and laughs. Steve has never seen so much affection sparkle behind those eyes of his—they were more often glinting with wit or exasperation instead. And yet, when he smiles at the girl, he transforms. He looks like a real dad.

“Oh, well, of course. They were going to find out eventually, though. It’s not like anybody uses the oven that often.” Scott rubs the back of his head sheepishly as he looks up at Steve. “The cookies were going to be for the whole team. We made special shapes and everything! Well, Cassie did… I, uh, supervised.”

“Daddy!” She gives her father a punch in the leg—this is by far the most mortified little girl Steve has ever seen.

He purses his lips and rolls his shoulders back, trying to remain level in the face of growing annoyance (not because of Cassie, certainly not—it is more annoyance at Scott for bringing a child into a _heavily armed military facility_ ). “Your daughter?” he asks, gesturing to her.

Scott nods his head. “You bet! Cassie, meet Mr. Steve Rogers! You can call him Captain, okay?” He ruffles her hair, leaving a smidge of sugar behind, though neither of them notice—Scott is too overjoyed, and Cassie is far too frazzled.

Steve bows his head to her politely, despite his frustration with Scott swelling. The girl gasps in complete awe and wonder, and then her face flushes a deep shade of red. “Captain…” she repeats in an undertone, and then suddenly darts behind her father, effectively shoving him between her and Steve. She mutters something about enjoying the cookies, but doesn’t say anything more (although Steve sees her steal occasional glimpses at him from behind Scott’s legs).

“Hey, there’s no need to be shy! Cap doesn’t bite. He just throws shields and stuff.” Scott pats her head again, but Cassie shies away from the touch, hissing a nervous “Daddy, not now!” in the process. He looks confused, but is wise enough not to snoop: he instead returns to Steve.

“So, what can I help you with, sir?”

Steve stares at him and arches an eyebrow. Is Scott really so dense that he _still_ doesn’t understand why this entire situation is horribly, terribly wrong? What exactly did Sam see in this guy, again…?

“We need to talk,” he says, coldly. He glances down at Cassie and bites his lip. “Alone, preferably.”

Scott’s boggled expression doesn’t falter. “What? Is it mission related?” He gasps and then lowers his voice to a whisper. “Is it Winter Soldier related? Listen, Captain, you know I have your back, even _if_ Pym is being an ass right now—”

“No,” Steve cuts him off, and his face twists in a grimace. He can feel the girl’s puzzled look on him, and he feels… claustrophobic. Trapped. Judged. “Look, we need to talk. _Now_.”

“Is everything okay, Daddy?” Cassie’s voice drifts up from below them. She doesn’t sound worried, more _protective_ , like she fears for him rather than fearing for herself.

Scott pans from her to Steve, his mouth hanging open. “Uh? Yes?” He steps closer towards him and softens his voice into an even quieter tone, so Cassie can’t listen… although, since she’s standing directly below them, it’s likely that she can still hear their conversation perfectly well, anyway. “We can talk right now. Go on. If it’s important, then it can’t wait.”

“God da—gosh dang it, Scott, how thick can you be?” Steve rumbles, and he’s about to lose his reserve and say fouler words when a new voice from the doorway abruptly interrupts him.

“What is that smell?” it says in a very heavy accent. Steve sags; he’s not quite sure whether he’s relieved or horrified when he turns and sees Wanda Maximoff stroll into the room with her nose scrunched, along with the Vision trailing curiously behind her. “You are cooking? Why? It is the middle of the afternoon. Also, you never cook.”

Cassie squeaks like all of the air has rushed from her lungs. She peeks around Scott’s leg and baffles at the two of them. “That’s—that’s! Daddy, that’s Scarlet Witch! And—the Vision!” She tugs him so hard, he nearly falls over. “They’re so cool!”

When the two newcomers notice the girl, they both mirror her expression of absolute shock—a perfect match, except for the slightest tinge of _sheer terror and panic_ that adds a special flair to theirs. Wanda looks like she has been caught red-handed in a most vile act, while Vision looks like he wants to sink into the floor (like he is fully capable of) and is fighting the urge not to.

“Guys—” Steve starts, raising out his hands in an effort to quell the chaos before it begins, but everybody is already speaking.

“What is _that_ doing here?”

“We were just passing through, sir. We are leaving now.”

“They’re so weird! They’re my favorites!”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“We are leaving, _now_.”

“This is great!” Scott is somehow the loudest out of all of them. He beams and grabs Cassie by the shoulders. “Perfect timing, Wanda, Vizh! Cap needs to talk to me about something.” He pats her and then gives her the lightest push forward. “Could you do me a favor and watch my daughter for a few minutes?”

“ _What_?” Wanda and Vision both say, one viciously and one most concernedly.

Cassie, on the other hand, is utterly ecstatic. “Really, Daddy?!”

Scott kneels down to speak to her. “Of course, peanut! Just make sure to behave yourself, okay? They’re both very shy.” He bops her on the nose, and is rewarded with a bubbly giggle. “Here, how’s about this? Go put on your heavy clothes and play in the snow with them for a bit. You haven’t gotten a chance to yet, right?”

“No!” she affirms, swinging her head back and forth and whipping her hair wildly. Suddenly, a thought passes through her mind, and her giddy smile vanishes. “But what about the cookies?”

“Cap and I have it covered.” He winks at her, instantly revitalizing her mood. He stands upright and then faces the horrified couple. “Would you guys be okay with that?”

Steve finds the scenario half-amusing, half-frightening. Wanda’s eyebrows are creased so deeply, it looks like her face is splitting in two. Vision, on the other hand, has his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw slack in offense. They don’t look like _kid_ people, he thinks with a snort. Then again, he _does_ need to get Cassie out of the room, and neither of them would ever let any harm befall her….

Both of them are staring at him, he realizes after a few seconds. Pleadingly so.

He coughs into his fist and then nods his head. “I _do_ need to talk to him,” he admits. Wanda is speechlessly livid; Vision only looks betrayed.

“Yay!” Cassie breaks the palpable awkwardness by throwing her hands up in the air and prancing towards the two. She looks like she is about to tackle one of them into a hug, but she changes her mind at the last minute (fortunately for everyone involved). “Scarlet Witch! You’re so cool! You can shoot, like, plasma-y stuff from your hands! Like this!” She holds up her own hands, with either of her ring fingers pressed to her palms. “Red, pretty glowiness goes flying towards the bad guys! Woosh!” She bounces. “You’re my favorite!”

The anger that was high on Wanda’s face before suddenly cools into dull disbelief. “Favorite?” she repeats, blinking.

“And you’re the Vision!” The little girl’s attention bats away from Wanda and towards the person behind her without a second thought. “The pretty gem on your head glows all sparkly, and then, bzzzt! It shoots out a big beam! Like a unicorn!” Her eyes light up—she has, apparently, never thought of that before. “It’s so pretty! You’re my favorite, too!”

Vision also startles and tilts his head. “Your favorite, too?” he parrots in wonder. His voice is sweet and gentle, and he is grounded enough to recover and say, “You flatter the both of us. What is your name, Miss…?”

“I’m….” She slaps her hands to her face so only her eyes can be seen through the slits of her fingers, as if wearing a mask. “…Stature! That’s my superhero name—Daddy helped me come up with it! I’m in the Young Avengers—they’re my friends at superhero school! I can talk to bugs and tell them to do stuff and I can grow big and small and get super strong….” She babbles happily, no end to her story in sight.

Steve has to wonder how much the media really does know about all of them. That’s the PR rep’s job, not his—he has no idea. He isn’t sure which is worse: the reason for the girl’s impressive knowledge of the Avengers to be because of television, or because of Scott running his mouth a few too many times in front of her. He can’t ask, though, not with her still there.

He makes eye contact with Vision (for Wanda is still fuming at the title of “favorite” being usurped from her) and gives him a tiny, shooing gesture with his hand. The look he gets in return is either one of damnation or polite affirmation—he has trouble telling when it comes to the Vision. Either way, he understands the message, and he proceeds to offer his hand down to the girl. She is completely floored and takes it in a fraction of a second. Before any more words can be exchanged, Cassie is leading (or, more accurately, dragging) the poor guy out of the room, Wanda sulking behind them.

“Have fun! Come in when you get too cold!” Scott calls after the group, but none of them respond. They can hear Cassie’s giggling for a few more moments until they fade into murmurs and then whimper into nothing. As soon as the voice is gone, he addresses Steve. “All right, what was so important that—?”

“What the hell were you _thinking_ , Scott?” Steve sharply turns on him, his reserve officially gone. “This is a military facility, full of the most dangerous people in the world! We are _always_ a target for attacks, for raids—what were you thinking, bringing your _daughter_ here? _You_ even raided this place! Who gave you permission? How did she even clear security?”

Scott is taken aback. “Huh? Is that what this is about?” His jaw clenches, and an icy looks begins to creep over his face. “Are you implying that I would put Cassie in danger on purpose? This is probably the safest place in the whole damn country! God, she’s off playing with the Robot Messiah _right_ now! You think she’s safer in Suburbia?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve growls, stalking towards him. They are standing closely but not touching, although the tension in the small space between them is enough to drown the whole room. “The farther from this place, the better. This isn’t another stupid job of yours, Scott, not some silly heist—God, we deal with things you could never even _dream_ of. This is no place to bring your _kid_.”

Scott squirms in his gaze, suddenly looking uncomfortable beneath his faux-courage. “Well—I just wanted to—I wanted to show her where I worked. To prove to her that I’m straight again, you know? To prove that I’m… a real hero now.” He looks a bit ashamed when the words leave his lips, like he has already realized how foolish he sounds. “I didn’t think—I thought she would be safe, and everybody would be cool with it. I got permission and everything.”

“Permission?” Steve rubs the sweat off the back of his neck. “Who gave you permission?”

“Agent Romanoff. I kinda, uh, thought you guys co-ran this? I know you’re the Captain and all, but she still helped me train, and she was part of the original crew. Uh. Sorry for the mix-up.”

Oh, God damn it. Nat, again? She knows better than that, doesn’t she? How far is she willing to take this “vacation” thing? Steve groans and smacks his hand against his forehead—he certainly doesn’t want to start an issue or have to call another god-forsaken “family meeting,” but surely…?

He has been out-ranked, out-maneuvered. He could get angry, but there is no point, is there? Cassie is already here and ditzing about with Wanda and Vision outside, and Scott is trembling in front of him… causing a scene would be pointless. It is too late.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” he murmurs, scrubbing his face. “Ugh. Just… come to me the next time you want to bring somebody here. Don’t go to Natasha.” He looks at Scott tiredly. “Please.”

Scott could definitely pick a fight if he wanted to, but he declines, luckily for him. His stiff shoulders slowly begin to relax. “Whatever you say, Captain,” he says, and curtly nods his head. He doesn’t seem to want to pry, a trait Steve could appreciate in a guy.

The timer on the oven suddenly rings, shocking them both out of their daze and hurling them back into reality. “Oh, man! They’re already done! Shit!” Scott waves his arms frantically and searches for the oven mitt. When he locates it, he slips it on over his hand and opens the oven door: the sweet scent of baked sugar wafts free, heavy on the air. Steve’s stomach whines pathetically in response, but Scott is too busy focusing on balancing the cookie sheet to pay any attention.

He pulls out another sheet and sets them both on the stove. The cookies are the color of ground wheat, and they take on many different splotchy shapes. Some look like lopsided stars, others crooked hearts; some are simply impossible to decrypt.

“We didn’t have any cookie cutters, so we had to improvise,” Scott explains, probably noticing the skeptical look on Steve’s face. “Cassie made all of them. They’re supposed to represent the Avengers—she wanted to surprise you guys with them. The stars are yours, I’m pretty sure.” He scratches his chin with his oven-mitted hand. “Uh, the hourglasses are Romanoff’s, the hearts are Maximoff’s… uh. Diamonds are Vizh’s…? Wilson’s are these ones, I think.” He gestures to a cookie that resembles a distorted comb, with a rounded edge and inward-facing points. “They’re wings. The deformed circles are Rhodes’s—they’re supposed to be his faceplate, but all the detail puffed up. Looks like we’ll just have to draw it on with frosting!” He looks far too giddy at the thought.

Steve gives him a curious look. “I never thought of you as the baking type,” he confesses.

“I’m not. I’ve never gotten the chance to, I mean. I’m pretty surprised that they turned out this well—well, you never know until you taste ‘em, but still.” Scott pauses and then looks back at Steve from over his shoulder. “I’ve missed a lot of winters with Cassie, but now that I’m free, I’m planning on making up to her in every way possible.” He grins, and pulls the mitt from his hand. “I wanted to give her the best vacation ever. Thanks for—uh—not kicking us out, even though you probably should. I owe you one.”

Steve’s gaze softens. God damn it, Natasha really _is_ worming her way into his head… _they’re_ the ones who really need to have a talk. It isn’t Scott’s fault, though, so there is no point in scolding him. He releases a weighty sigh, and then reflects the smile, gently.

“I get it,” he breathes. “I stand by what I said, but—ah. I’m sorry if I came off too strong.” _It’s a good idea to_ act _like the good guy_ , he thinks, remembering the secret meanings laced within Natasha’s whispers.

“No, no! It’s my fault! What the hell, don’t apologize to me!” Scott pulls back his lips, perturbed. “Don’t you _dare_ pull that crap on me, Captain America!” He steps towards Steve, sizing him up and glaring at his face, when a blank expression suddenly sweeps over him. “Ah.”

Steve’s contentment fades. “Is something wrong?” he wonders, fearing the worst.

“Oh, no! It’s nothing.” He laughs, although it sounds a bit forced. “You just—you have a little bit of flour, right there on your cheek. Were you touching your face? That’s not very good cooking etiquette, you know.”

Steve is about to pipe up with the fact that he has already seen Scott scratch himself _multiple_ times, when a hand reaches out and hooks its fingers beneath his chin. Scott’s touch is ginger, far more ginger than Steve ever would have imagined (not that he often thinks about such a topic, but _still_ ), and he runs his thumb over his cheek more times than seems necessary.

“See, there you go! All clean! You’re lucky I didn’t have to use the mom-spit.” He grins in good-nature, but he doesn’t lift his hand from the other’s face.

Steve opens his mouth slightly and his muscles tense beneath his skin. “Thank you,” he says, although his wariness is slipping through in his tone. “…Scott?”

“Uh—huh?” He seems to have fazed completely out of reality. His eyes are trained on Steve, enthralled by the curvature of his cheekbones and the angle of his chin. His touch glides from his cheek to his lips, softly grazing along their pinkness.

“ _Scott_ ,” the captain repeats, and the command in his voice and the hostile fervor in his eyes is enough to plummet Scott back to earth. He flinches his hand away, like he has just been burned.

“Oh man! What was that? You’re just _magnetic_ or something! Were you leaning into me there for a second? Captain, you sly dog!” When Steve’s glare doesn’t lessen, he continues to ramble, growing more crazed and embarrassed with each passing word. “Oh… haha. You had something on your lips too, you see! I was just getting that off for you! No need to thank me—it’s all in a day’s work! Just another good deed from your friendly neighborhood Ant-Man!” His mouth is running at a mile a minute. The smile on his face is not strained, but is in fact strangely goofy, like that of a child who has just gotten away with stealing a cookie from the jar.

Steve isn’t stupid, but he definitely doesn’t know what to make of that, and he isn’t in the best of moods to care.

“You know,” he says through his teeth, “I have to recommend that you bring your daughter inside soon. You left her with the two most socially dysfunctional units on the team.”

Scott’s stupid face falls. “Huh? What? That’s mean. I love those two guys. Well, Vizh’s pretty cool… Maximoff’s kinda scary. But I’m sure they’re fine.” He holds eye contact with Steve for a few beats, before his lips contort in sudden understanding. He turns and hustles out of the room, the way Wanda and Vision had left. Steve feels curious enough to follow.

They make their way towards the entrance, each picking up their heavy clothes along the way. “She’s been talking about the Avengers for a long time now. She’s a huge fan,” Scott tells Steve as he pulls on his shoes. “She loves all of you. I genuinely think Maximoff is her favorite, although I have no idea why. Well, her favorite next to her _dad_ , of course.”

Once they are fully bundled up (“They better not have let Cassie go outside in what she was wearing,” Scott mutters under his breath), the two exit the building into the cold air. The sky is gray and mellow, as it has been for weeks, and the snow on the ground twinkles in what little light there is. It doesn’t take long to find their companions, for the scarlet hue of Wanda’s long pea coat and the flushed shade of Vision’s skin stick out against the cool colors like the blemish of blood on a sheet.

“Hey, peanut!” Scott calls out, waving his hand. All three of them turn towards him: Cassie, Steve sees, is dressed in a bright pink coat so thick, she waddles rather than walks. She is hunched over a lump in the snow, as is Vision… Wanda is standing over them, a few meters away. “Cookies are done!”

Cassie raises her head and wiggles her arm back. “Daddy! Come look what we’re making!” she shouts, and the atmosphere outside is still enough to let her voice carry. Vision stands quickly and steps away to join Wanda, looking remarkably distressed. Wanda’s shoulders are bobbing and her hand is over her mouth—it takes Steve a second to realize that she is, in fact, snickering at him.

Scott and Steve trundle over to them and the mound. Upon closer inspection, the lump in the snow is revealed to have… legs. Six of them. It also has crude antennae, as well as large, sculpted eyes and a beak-like mouth jutting out from what looks to be the head.

“It’s a snow-ant,” Steve remarks, and he too finds himself hiding behind his hand and snickering along with Wanda, much to Vision’s apparent chagrin.

“It’s Antony Junior,” Cassie says, face glowing with pride, “my pet ant!” She glances up at Vision and Wanda, who instantly stiffen and try to act as natural as possible. “He’s like my dog! He’s a super big ant and I keep him at home with Mommy!”

Wanda’s lips are twitching, like she’s trying to hold back a laugh. Vision manages to nod at Cassie, despite his previously cloudy countenance. “That is very… brave of you,” he says for the both of them.

“Holy cow, that’s awesome!” Scott reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’m gonna take a picture and send it to your mom and Hope, okay? Pose next to him and smile!”

Cassie does: she swings her legs over it and she sits, flashing a peace sign à la Tony Stark. “I want Scarlet Witch and the Vision to be in the picture, too!” she cries after the first flash goes off.

Scott hesitates and glances back to Steve. He shakes his head no—yeah, they aren’t going to risk security for a photo op. When hell froze over, maybe.

“Why don’t we go back inside, peanut?” Scott asks as he lowers the phone. “The cookies are done. We can go and decorate them, like you wanted.”

This seems to have erased the previous thought completely from her mind. “Yay, cookies!” She dismounts the snow-ant and toddles over to her father, practically throwing herself into his arms. Scott chuckles joyfully and hoists her up into the air. “We have to make them all pretty! Nobody is allowed to eat any until they’re pretty!”

Scott pats her on the back and continues to talk as he carries her back towards the main building. Steve gazes after them, his face much kinder than it had been before. He should probably follow them, he figures: he needs to make sure that they don’t get into any trouble, like Scott has the habit of doing every so often. Before he does, though, he regards both Wanda and Vision with a thankful nod.

“Thanks for covering for me back there, you two. I didn’t want to… you know. Not in front of the kid.”

“It is quite all right.” Vision bows back in return.

“You simply owe us one, yea?” chimes Wanda, challengingly. When Steve opens his mouth to respond, she interrupts. “I will accept payment in form of a favor. I will remember this, Rogers.” She huffs, stands up a little straighter, and then saunters off in the opposite direction. Her bright color is eventually swallowed by the dismal mist.

Vision and Steve exchange looks with one another. “I believe she enjoyed herself, despite what her language may suggest,” the former divulges quietly, like he is telling a secret. “Cassie is the girl’s name, yes? She is a kind being—Mr. Lang must be an excellent father. I too enjoyed spending time with her.”

The snow-ant is staring at the both of them, knowingly and judgingly. God, Steve would have given anything to see Vision bending over in the snow, helping the little girl build her creation. Maybe he could convince the security guards to let him steal a copy of the tape. “I appreciate the help.”

“Yes. Well, I must say, I am also looking forward to repayment. A favor should suffice, should it not?” Steve does a double-take as his gaze sweeps back to the Vision: he is completely straight-faced and serious. After a slow nod, he says as a final farewell, “Good day, Captain Rogers,” and then his entire being silently lifts off the ground to float up and away. Showing off, as per usual.

When Steve re-enters the kitchen, he finds Rhodes guiltily holding a handful of cookies, Cassie angrily lecturing him, Scott trying to restrain his rampaging daughter, and Sam doubled-over the counter in hysterical laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh… Civil War. I assume it occurs a year after Ultron, since the movies tend to correspond to their release dates? So, when is Bucky found by Sam and Steve? Well, probably around that same time… but, uh, this fic kind of throws that out the window and instead lets it simmer for a bit—Sam and Steve, with Scott’s help, freed Bucky and he ran off again, and Tony’s had some stupid legal shit that is straining relationships with the Avengers (esp his relationship with Steve :^)), but not enough to be an official problem yet. My fictional “calm before the storm,” if you will, even though this probably doesn’t exist in canon. But hey, if it did, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing fanfiction about it.
> 
> …Look, I wanted a fluffy winter fic with Scott Lang (b/c he’s a total cutie pie) and I was going to get my fluffy winter fic with Scott Lang. Ahhhh, thank you for reading~!


	3. Scarlet Witch

Most nights, Steve cannot sleep. The bed is too soft, and his dreams are haunted with nightmarish scenes, glinting with glimpses of terrors from both the past and the future. Flashes of metal, of beams and glowing stones and bloodied soldiers, tearing screams and hollowed laughter—they all plague his thoughts. People have come in to check on him once or twice—well, Sam has, and sometimes the presence calms Steve enough for him to sleep dreamlessly. He isn’t there tonight, though, and the bleak, encroaching walls aren’t letting him drift. Steve is completely restless, and he feels more awake than he had been during the day itself.

He decides that he is hungry. He rolls out of bed, shrugs on a sweatshirt, and stumbles out of his room towards the communal kitchen. It is three o’clock, too late for the night owls and too early for the morning doves. He treads quietly, careful not to make a sound as he tiptoes past the other living quarters.

When he enters the kitchen, he is startled to find that there is a dim light switched on and someone standing by the counter.

For a horrifying instant, Steve thinks that the person is some sort of agent—that they have been infiltrated by HYDRA, or something worse. He ducks behind the corner wall and attempts to remain unseen as he observes the figure for a conclusion. However, he is not sly enough, and the figure’s head turns towards him.

“…Rogers?” a frail voice calls out. Once her face is brightened by the light, the woman reveals herself to be Wanda Maximoff, looking both confused and nervous as she peers towards Steve, into the darkness. “Why are you awake?”

The tension in Steve’s stance eases. He steps out from behind his corner, walking fully into the room. He can see Wanda closer now—there are black bags under her eyes, and her cheeks are hollow. She is glaring at him.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says, approaching the counter.

Wanda scoffs under her breath. “I am always awake at this time. I do not sleep often.” She crosses her arms over her chest, defensively. “I am getting a… midnight snack.”

He stops a few meters away, as to give her some space. He looks behind her—it seems she has been fiddling with the microwave, for it is slightly ajar and there appears to be something inside of it. “Should I be worried about you, Maximoff?” he asks, returning eye contact.

“Hardly. It is not a new thing.” She catches the look, and she protectively moves in front of the microwave. “It is difficult to sleep when half of you is missing.”

Steve watches her, cautiously. He knows that feeling far too well, but doesn’t know if it would be proper to voice that. Perhaps Wanda already knows—perhaps she is unraveling his deepest thoughts as they speak.

He instead focuses on the microwave. “What are you making?” 

“That is none of your business.”

“No, I guess not. But I came out here for a snack too, you know.” Steve chooses to make his remarks light and carefree. “I don’t suppose we have any of Cassie’s cookies left?”

Wanda answers before she can stop herself. “No. I looked. It was either Rhodes or Vizh who ate the last of them, I guarantee—or they stole them for themselves.” She winces as the words pass through her lips, like she has let something slip.

“Well, they were _really_ good cookies, so I don’t blame them.” Steve eases over towards the fridge and cracks it open. Nothing appeals to him—there’s milk, he supposes, and juice. Eggs, eggnog (courtesy of Rhodes), one of Sam’s half-drunk protein shakes, a loaf of bread, and a quarter of a turkey sandwich that probably belongs to somebody. Nobody exactly _does_ grocery shopping, so he isn’t exactly sure what he had been expecting. He closes it with a thud. “What else do we have?”

She doesn’t answer him, but still stares. Steve chooses to cross over to the cupboards and fling them open. Cookie ingredients overflow over the ledge, thanks to Scott and Cassie: sugar, brown sugar, cocoa powder, frosting that should be refrigerated, sprinkles, peanut butter… Steve has to catch a vial of vanilla extract before it falls onto the tile. He sets it back and frowns, for there is nothing of substance to snack on. He could make something, sure, but it is three in the morning, and he doesn’t have the will to cook anything of worth.

“I did not have a plan,” Wanda admits from beside him. She steps away from the microwave and opens it ashamedly. “I was warming up water for tea, but we did not have any tea packets, so it did not matter.”

Steve blinks at her. “Apparently, we need to go grocery shopping.”

“Apparently. That does nothing for my hunger now, though.” She narrows her eyes. “I’ll go back to my room. If there is nothing to eat, there is no reason for me to stay here.” She begins to spin on her heel. “Good night, Rogers.”

“Wait a second,” Steve says, holding out a hand (although he does not come anywhere close to touching her). “Wait, wait—I have an idea.” The ingredients he had seen had sparked a memory within him. He remembers the smell, mostly—the rich scent of chocolate, mingling with the heavy morning musk that was already thick in the air. He also recalls the silver of a snowy sky glistening through the windows of the Avengers Tower, the comfort as warmth spread into his chest and heart, and the affectionate smile Tony had worn when Steve had pulled away from his cup with a dark stripe of the drink on his upper lip (“Why are you smiling so much, Cap? Did they not have hot chocolate back in the stone ages? Hey, you have some on your face, come over here and lemme get that for you….”).

He moves towards the cupboards and gathers the cocoa powder and sugar into his arms. He strides across the floor, around Wanda, and locates both a pot and the milk he had seen in the fridge (it is, surprisingly, not yet expired).

“What are you doing?” Wanda hisses as she stands behind him. “You cannot be _making_ something, can you? The scent will be enough to wake the whole building—you saw what happened with the cookies! Everybody will come in here!”

Then let them come, Steve thinks, for he is already flipping on the stove.

Wanda scrutinizes him from over his shoulder, watching as he pours the sugar and cocoa into the pot. “Are you baking something? Cooking? What are you doing? _Do not_ ignore me…!”

He mixes the powders together with a rubber spatula he had brought with the pot. He isn’t sure what inspires him to do this, especially in the middle of the night. It couldn’t have been just his hunger—it is something in Wanda’s eyes, something in the crackle of her voice that makes him want to do this. He _needs_ to do this. And so, he pours the milk.

“I’m making hot chocolate,” he says, pointedly.

“What?” She tips her head. “That is a children’s drink. Yes—I remember… Pietro and I, we have had it before. Our parents used to make it… yes.” She stills, lost in a distant memory of her own. “It is innocent. Why do you make it now?”

“Because I’m hungry.” The mixture is beginning to form into a brown, sloshy paste. A sweet scent breezes through the air, although it is light in its edge. “Besides, you look like you could use something sweet,” Steve teases as he gives her a smug grin.

A blush flowers across Wanda’s face, from her cheeks to her ears. It is most definitely, Steve comments with an inward chuckle, a lovely shade of scarlet. “D-do not patronize me, Rogers,” she seethes.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, I could definitely use something sweet right now, too.” The sugar is probably going to keep him up, but at least he would have a chemical excuse rather than a psychological one. He turns the heat up and continues to stir.

“You are vile. It is three in the morning, and you are harassing your coworkers. You should be ashamed.”

“Harassing?” he repeats, amused. “Fine, then. I’ll stop talking, if you’re offended by it.”

Wanda holds her ground for a good minute or so, until the liquid in the pot is thick and creamy and boiling. When the consistency seems right, Steve switches off the heat and reaches for the cupboards above them. He grabs two white mugs, both of the same make.

“I do not want any,” Wanda mumbles, although she is eyeing the pot with intense curiosity.

“Okay.” Steve ladles the drink into both of the mugs, anyway. Wanda may be able to read minds, but she still wears her heart on her sleeve. He wonders if she means to do that, or if it is just an unfortunate side effect of being so vulnerable to other people’s emotions.

His suspicion is confirmed, for—once one of the mugs is full—she promptly takes one and holds it close to her mouth.

 

“It was unwise of you to saddle me with a child.”

They are sitting at the dining table, across from one another. Wanda is slouched forward, stirring her drink with a spoon Steve had given her (for the heat had been too great to enjoy the hot cocoa without it). She is not making eye contact.

Steve looks at her, anyway. His eyebrows wrinkle. “Uh, what are we talking about?”

“Lang’s daughter. You forced me to take her outside and babysit her.” She huffs a sour breath. “That was foolish of you. It was even more foolish of me to allow that to happen.”

He is not sure what she means by that. The situation had been awkward, but it had been heartwarming, nonetheless. _All_ of the Avengers had acted awkwardly around Cassie, but had warmed up to her in time—and all of them, even Steve, had been disappointed when she had to return to San Francisco.

“Do not assume things about me,” Wanda growls, either reading the expression on his face or reading far into his thoughts. “It does not have to do with the girl. It is I who I am worried about. I am….” Her face distorts, her mouth curling and her brows twisting. “…Unstable.”

Steve blinks at that. “You’ve improved drastically since you’ve started training with us,” he smoothly objects, setting his chocolatey mug down on the table. “You’re far from unstable—you’ve learned to control yourself. You can’t keep putting yourself down. If you believe those things, then they’ll come true.”

“Oh, save your speeches for someone who actually needs them.” She takes a hostile sip of her drink. “It is true that my outward powers have been contained, but the inward ones? My powers of the mind? They are nowhere near silent.” Wanda stares past Steve, looking beyond—looking towards something deeper than he could comprehend. “Even now, I can _hear_ you, Rogers. Your thoughts are so close, they are bewildering. I can hear everyone’s thoughts, even from this distance—tell me, do you know what the Falcon dreams of? Do you know what the War Machine fears, or what the Black Widow remembers?”

Steve doesn’t have to respond, for she already knows what he is going to say. “No, you don’t know. You can never know. They might tell you, and they may slip you hints, but you can never _know_ , like I do. You can never _see,_ or _hear_. They in themselves can never truly know, for they are frightened by their own selves, their own mind.” She brings her gaze back to Steve; the smile tinging her lips is spiteful. “It is a miserable existence.”

Steve cannot imagine. What is he supposed to say? Wanda is right—he has no idea what it is like, having so much corrupting power beneath one’s fingertips. He may be strong, fast, clever, but he is nowhere near as _wondrous_ as she… compared to her, he is nothing. The restraint she has in order to control her overflowing power must be infinite. No—who is he to give her advice? He is a captain, their _Captain_ , but he simply has no idea how to console, much less how to end a pain this great.

“I’m sorry,” he says, for he can think of no other words.

Wanda sips again, and then wipes her mouth off on her sleeve. “Children’s minds are very different from adults’. I had never been so close to one before, not after the experiments. I was… afraid. Not of her, but _for_ her. Her mind was so intense, so… warm, and _glowing_. There was fear inside of her, but only in the deepest crevasses… and I could _feel_ it, and how it was beginning to emerge in her. I did not want—I….” The words catch in her throat. “I did not want to be the one to reveal that darkness to her. I was afraid that I would, if she got too close to me. I was afraid that I would not be able to control myself.”

Steve listens, letting his face remain neutral. “You did control yourself, though.”

“I would not touch her. She wanted to hold my hand, but I would not let her.” She blinks, hard. “She resented me for it.”

“Now, I don’t think that’s true. She’s a little kid—their minds move at a mile a minute. Besides, she’s Scott’s kid, and she’s bright for her age.” Steve wants to reach out and press a hand to her shoulder, but he suspects that she would pull away. Perhaps _all_ touch is painful for her, now that Pietro is no longer by her side.

Wanda shakes her head. “No, you wouldn’t understand. How could you? How could anyone?”

“She loves you. You’re her idol: Scott said so himself. One little bump in the road isn’t going to change that, especially not for a kid.”

She flinches as Steve speaks—not exactly the response he had been hoping for. “I do not deserve to be anybody’s idol. This… _media_ is corrupting the truth, and it is despicable.” Rage flares behind her eyes, and Steve swears he sees the faintest hint of red. “I am a monster. We are _all_ monsters, all humans alike. This world will destroy itself: not with fire, but with the shards of broken hearts.” Something wicked touches her lips. “You would know that better than anyone, wouldn’t you, Rogers? After what your lover has—”

“Hey.” Steve pushes his chair back with a whine and stands, suddenly all strength and all presence. Wanda winces at the high-pitched squeak. “Don’t—don’t think things like that. You can’t let those thoughts consume you. Yes, the media is terrible, and we’re definitely different, and we’ve made mistakes. But all of those things—none of them have anything to do with the quality of _your_ character, Wanda.” She shudders as he says her first name, but it doesn’t faze him. “We’re both human at our cores, but that isn’t a bad thing… you have to know that.”

Wanda is biting her lip, torn between laughing, sobbing, and screaming. She knows what he is trying to say, so why is he bothering to say it at all? He feels the need to, the _obligation_. Steve has to think that, perhaps, she is not as omnipotent as she tries to seem: maybe she only hears what she wants to hear, like any other human being.

“I know that my words might not mean a lot to you. Your thoughts, your powers—I would be lying if I said I understood what you’re going through. But,” he breathes, “I understand war. How you volunteered for those experiments, how you tried to avenge your family and your home… I understand that. I also understand loss… the feeling of being broken, of losing your other half—yeah, I know that one far better than I would like to.” Something between a sigh and a gasp escapes from his throat. “As you already pointed out.”

Wanda does not say anything, although he can tell that he has had an effect on her: she is shaking. She raises her drink to her lips, hiding behind the cup.

“I’ve rebuilt,” Steve continues, softly. “I’m not the same man as I was when I came out of the ice. Through my experiences and my relationships, I’ve stitched myself back together. Not wholly and not perfectly, but it makes do. And other parts of me have broken since then—parts break every day. People die, friends change….” _Hearts shatter_ , he almost says, but resists. “But I’ve gotten through it, because I _have_ to. That’s just life. Sam, Nat, Scott, the whole team—they help me through it. _You_ guys are my other half: every single one of you. You fill in the—uh, holes… that make up my being.” Oh God, that wasn’t poetic at all. There goes his mojo.

Wanda raises her eyebrows.

“What I _mean_ is,” he tries again, feeling heat crawl to his face, “you’re all important to me. When I went into the ice, I was fighting for my country. When I came out, that country didn’t even exist anymore—my friends, my home, my everything… gone. When I tried fighting for this country again—when I was bundled up in that Tower, looking down at the entire city like God Himself—I realized that I could never return to those days. So now, I fight for something else—I fight for you, and for people _like_ you. I fight for people like Rhodes, who give their entire lives for what they believe in; people like Vision, who are unique and beautiful and deserve _so_ much better; and for people like you, Wanda, who remind me of myself.”

He has a difficult time telling if he’s getting his point across. She has stopped arguing, so that’s a good sign, right? Ah, now he doesn’t know how to end his speech. He wants to pat her head or give her a tap on the shoulder, maybe, but any sort of touch would invalidate everything he has been trying to say.

So, he tries the next best thing.

He wonders if he can maybe project an image to her, if she can read minds so well… like telepathy, he thinks. So, he settles his face and silences his thoughts, and then envisions nothing but the singular image of wrapping his arms around her—of pressing her close, of feeling the rise and fall of her chest against his, of gently coaxing her anxieties away.

“Listen—I know I can’t hug you, so… uh. Imagine I’m giving you a mind… hug.” Yeah, he feels a bit silly, saying it aloud.

Wanda looks at him, long and hard. He has no idea whether or not she is receiving his message. “I believed that I could not hurt you again, but I just did,” she whispers in realization, and lowers her gaze down to her hands around her coffee mug.

Steve continues fleshing out the picture in his mind. He would rub circles into her back—he himself finds that massaging movement relaxing, so maybe she does, too. His other hand would run his fingers through her soft hair—or no? Was that pushing it? Probably—so he would instead keep his hands steady on her, holding her so she would never fall, never falter.

He is so focused on his mental image that he barely realizes that a sensation blooms along his arm. Wanda is stroking him lightly, ghosting along his skin with the very tips of her nails. She looks torn.

“I can feel it,” she marvels. “I can feel what you are thinking. I can—I haven’t—I haven’t felt something this strong, not since… Pietro.” She pauses her tracing, and she glances up into Steve’s eyes. “I can feel _you_.”

Steve opens his mouth, but his lips cling together from their sudden dryness.

Wanda is staring at him, or through him, or _into_ him, maybe. Her eyes twinkle. “Your words—they mean more than you realize. I am… they are….” She seems too flustered for coherent sentences. “Ugh. Don’t make me say it.”

He gets it. He really does.

He moves to sit next to her, and they finish their hot chocolate in warm silence. She presses closer to him at some point, but only when she is certain he will not notice. (He does notice, of course. She is, just as he thought before, amazingly obvious.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boyfriend break up with you? Just get six hot new lovers and laugh when he tries to get back into your life ahahahahaha  
> Ah. I have a thing for warm drinks in the middle of the night, whether it be tea, coffee, hot cocoa... it just seems so snuggly, doesn't it? In other news, it's supposed to be the hottest it's been all year this weekend, reaching a high of 115. I am writing my escape fantasy.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I appreciate it very much. c:


	4. The Vision

Steve has a lounge he likes to visit on quiet afternoons. It is small and secluded, tucked away between vast hallways… it easily hides from the eye of the unobservant. He isn’t exactly sure why it’s there—he guesses it was supposed to be an office at some point, for it includes a couch, desk, and lamp. There many ghostly, empty rooms like his in the new facility, like ruins of a great utopia: untouched, but still eerily silent. It feels lonelier than the Tower—it is too sterile, too foreboding…maybe that’s because Tony’s workers weren’t buzzing around anymore.

He often visits the room for some relaxation, maybe to watch a movie Nat had bothered him about or read book Sam had recommended. It’s nice to get out of his room and unwind—catch up on the years he had missed. Today, he had headed to the room with the intent to draw: what else could he do, with Natasha breathing down his neck? So he had brought his sketchbook with him, as well as a few pencils tucked into his pocket, in pleasant preparation for some peace.

Needless to say, Steve was completely blindsided by the jarring sight of his humble abode under siege by a fearsome force of colorful yarn balls and half-stitched, woolly garments.

“…Captain Rogers?”

He has trouble telling where the voice comes from, for the room is completely  _consumed_  in bright, blinding hues. It doesn’t help that, once Steve does locate it, he finds that the owner is as fluorescently colored as the yarn. The Vision is wearing something even more garish than his usual attire: something murky gold and fuzzily textured, with stenciled, viridian evergreen trees patterned in blocky strokes across his front….

Good God, he’s wearing a sweater.

He’s holding a sweater, too, by the looks of it. Something soft and navy-blue is wrapped up in his hands, and he’s gripping a pair of knitting needles… so Steve can only assume. The sweater he’s actually wearing seems almost…  _big_  on him: it snakes all the way to his fingertips and then down to mid-thigh, and is a bit baggy over his chest. It makes him look small and young, traits most ill-fit for the infinitely powerful and intelligent synthetic entity Steve has come to know. The whole situation seems quite… compromising.

“...Err,” Steve begins, retreating back through the doorway, “s-sorry for… disturbing you. I mean—I didn’t know you came here, too—sorry, I’ll go somewhere else—”

“That is not necessary,” Vision says smoothly. He blinks at Steve and quirks his head, looking amused. “You may come in, if you would like.” He slowly nods towards the empty spot next to him on the couch.

Steve knows that he should probably just bail and return to his room, but Vision’s expectant gaze prevents him from fleeing. He is sucked in by his otherworldly presence, practically dragged into the room by it. He truly hopes that it is only his weak will preventing him from running rather than something more sinister (for beauty is not, in itself, a superpower).

He tiptoes over the yarn and discarded half-garments as daintily as is possible for a super-serum-laced giant of a man. Somehow, he has always imagined Vision as more organized than what this catastrophe would lead him to assume: it looks like a rainbow had shattered above them, leaving only its glowing spirit fluttering behind in long strings of color.

When he finally manages to make it to the couch, Steve sets his sketchbook aside and melts into the cushions in utter relief. Vision regards him kindly but remains silent, having gone back to working on his project. He does not bother to speak, even after a few minutes have passed.

Steve eases a bit and moves to rest his hand on the armrest of the couch, but he jumps when he feels the unexpected bristle of wool tickle his skin. He looks to see a bundle of folded, fluffy shirts balancing on the arm, all stacked on top of one another in a precarious tower. Judging from how nicely and crisply they’ve been folded, he wagers that these are the proud successes.

“…So, uh.” The awkwardness is thick in the air, but Vision seems content with ignoring it. “What’s, umm… what are you up to?” He winces at how lame he sounds.

Vision spares him a sidelong glance. “I am knitting,” he states.

“Well, I can see that much.” Steve cranes his neck, attempting to garner a guess as to  _what_ , exactly, he is making. “Why?”

“Why do you draw, Captain Rogers? Why did Michelangelo sculpt? Why did Asimov write?” His voice is calm, but stern. “I feel the inspiration to create, so thus, I do. It is a simple desire, primitive in its essence, but I feel it nonetheless.” He pauses his swiftly-moving hands and swings one leg up over the other. “You may see samples of my work in the pile beside you. However, I must ask you to please refold them once you’re done looking.”

Steve hesitates, but Vision is giving him a very pointed look, so he complies. As he plucks one off of the top, he realizes that—including the one in his hands—the pile comprises three sweaters. He unfolds it and drapes it against himself: it is cream-colored with a low V-neck, patterned with swirls of blue that resemble blooming flowers… or maybe stars, he cannot tell. It is amazingly intricate, no matter the subject. The colors, the shades, the spinning designs… it looks like the work of a master tailor. How long has Vision been knitting, he muses…?

“A few months,” comes the answer, startling Steve out of his thoughts. “I found the concept fascinating and it was cold outside, so I attempted it. I took to it very quickly.” He sees the shock in Steve’s eyes, and he offers a supportive smile. “Ah, I’m sorry, sir. You do tend to wear your heart on your sleeve—I could wager a guess as to what you were thinking. Don’t worry: I promise to use that ability of mine… sparingly.”

Steve wonders if they have another mind-reader in their midst, but he chooses not to dwell on it for too long. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, so long as Vision is on his side. Hopefully, he  _stays_  on his side.

“So, uh. Do you… wear these?” he asks as he begins to fold the sweater back up. The baggy  _thing_  Vision has on is miraculously ugly compared to the shirt Steve is holding… maybe it had been an earlier try.

“They are presents,” Vision explains. “I don’t need twenty different garments for myself, but I find them enjoyable to make—thus, I make them for others. Think of them as… holiday gifts. That is what I have been saving them for.” His eyes focus on the sweater Steve is bundling, and he nods towards it. “The one you have in your hands is a gift for Dr. Cho.”

That’s a name Steve hasn’t heard in a while. Helen Cho is contracted with the Avengers brand, he believes, but he has not seen her in the flesh for a few months. He is aware that Vision sometimes disappears at night, or even for days at a time (when training is slow and the team won’t miss his already wraithlike appearances)… perhaps he goes to visit her. 

Once he is done folding, he pulls another sweater off of the pile and beats it open. This one is much smaller than the other, and is a deep shade of forest green. Red splotches pattern themselves in zigzags across the front and back—red splotches that, Steve realizes after a second of squinting, resemble the bow-like delicacy of marching ants.

Steve gives Vision a look.

“Oh. Yes. That is for Mr. Lang’s daughter.” Vision glances back towards the wad in his hands, as if embarrassed. “She has… she has taken to sending us letters and drawings through Mr. Lang, as I am sure you are aware. I figured that it would be courteous to return the favor.”

A small smile touches the corners of Steve’s lips. “That’s very sweet of you, Vision.”

He shifts his legs in discomfort, moving so that they were no longer crossed. “Yes. Well. Mr. Lang’s constant reminders of her infatuation were beginning to become tiresome. Hopefully this will be enough to quench the two of their thirsts for a while.” Even though he is trying to maintain an apathetic tone, it is obviously only for show. He’s just a big softie beneath all of that omnipotence, Steve chuckles.

“And this one?” he asks, reaching for the final sweater. Before he unfurls it, he can tell that it is far more intricate than the other two: it is heavy with detail and is saturated with bright, streaking lines of red and gold. When it is fully spread, the design is so firmly ingrained into Steve’s mind that he recognizes it in an instant: it is the front of the Iron Man Mark XLIII, complete with white arc reactor and nicked ribcage. Each line is smooth and wide, and despite the canvass being wool, it still has as much presence and artistry as any painting (or even as much as the suit of armor itself).

Vision freezes and stiffens as Steve gapes at his work. “Oh, that. Yes, well—you see, there is a reason for that.” He speaks quickly, as if sensing that some of the warmth had drained from the room. “You must understand that Mr. Stark was heavily involved in my creation, much like Dr. Cho was. It is, therefore, understandable that I would also impart him with a gift—”

“It’s fine, Vizh,” Steve assures gently. Any mention of Tony would usually result in the tension spiking, but… Steve doesn’t let the atmosphere turn too cold. No, Natasha was right: taking a break from avenging duty has definitely improved his temper. They’ve been lucky that the whole world had decided to break with them (even Tony, it seems).

Vision blinks at him, his vortex-like eyes whirling and scanning. Steve marvels at how tender he truly is: even now, he regards him with pristine care and tact. He feels spoiled.

“…I see.”

Steve feels the need to restore the mood, before Vision ends up floating out on him. “This is absolutely amazing. The detail, the color… damn, how long did this take you?” A whistle sounds from between his teeth. “I’m jealous.”

Vision tilts his head at a drastic angle, still trying to derive the nature of the situation. “I work faster than a normal human being, as I do not require rest,” he says. “The Mind Stone also grants me a vast number of wondrous abilities.” Apparently, the time it had taken to make the sweater is too unbelievable to actually utter.

“And one of those magical space-stone abilities is the power of ultimate knitting?”

“It would seem so.”

Steve snorts. “All right, all right. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that I envy your talent.” He begins to fold the two sweaters back up, although he can’t hope to match the delicacy with which Vision had previously treated them.

“We all have our abilities and limitations. It is what makes us mortal, rather than gods. Although, I’m not sure if I fit into that description entirely.” Vision eases back into the couch, the tension in his shoulders and thighs dissipating. “For example, there are many traits and abilities of yours that I envy, Captain Rogers.”

“Oh?” Steve has trouble believing that. Vision is an entity that surpasses humans on every level—as he likes to remind the team on many an occasion. It is always jokingly, of course… he is much wiser than that, infinitely wiser. (And yet, Steve sometimes hears a drone or a croon that reminds him far too much of JARVIS, or maybe of Tony. It is unfair of Steve to do that to Vision and he  _knows_  it, but he just can’t stop his mind from wandering….)

The other nods, carefully. “You have a strong soul. You are brave, wise, valiant. You care for life beyond all else.” He looks past him, into space. His hands fiddle with the needle, but they do not spin. “The kindness of your heart is unparalleled, and your beauty is breathtaking. Your soul is, in essence, the embodiment of hope. It is  _wondrous_. I am in awe of you every second I am in your presence. You are human—beyond that, you are  _humanity_ , sir. You are what I find myself striving to protect.”

He pauses, and in a moment, the soft smile returns to his face. Steve is frozen beneath his gaze: Vision’s words, so pleasant and sweet, have far too great of an effect on him. His voice is smooth, so full of warmth… when Steve listens to him, he has to wonder why  _he_  isn’t in charge of the team. Vision is sage, evolved, amazingly gentle… and yet, he is so  _naïve_. He’s sitting in a room swamped in vibrant spools of yarn, and he’s  _wearing a_   _homemade_   _sweater for God’s sake_ , simply because he felt the inspiration to create—like a child, clever and oh-so curious.

God, Steve doesn’t even know what to think. He never signed up for this.

“I realize that my description was a bit… grandiose,” Vision carries on, setting the half-made shirt down onto his lap. He raises one now-free hand up to his face and leans on his knuckle, watching Steve in a manner one would reserve for an old friend or dear lover. “I envy you, but I would never dream of becoming you—of becoming human. A part of me wishes that I could someday replicate humanity as well as you do, sir, but… I feel that would taint its brilliance. Creatures as beautiful as you are… why, I could never dream of infringing upon such loveliness. I would corrupt it. I am content with observing you, protecting you, staying by your side as a friend—it is a privilege to even be allowed this much. So please, know that my jealousy does not delve into bitterness.”

Steve’s mouth is open, and he hopes that the heat burning his cheeks is only in his imagination. Vision watches him for a longer while, but says nothing more. He is apparently waiting for a response, but damn—how the hell is he supposed to respond to  _that_?

He swallows a hot lump and thins his lips into a frown. “You must be mistaking me for someone else,” he jokes, but his voice comes out as a broken crackle.

“I respectfully disagree.”

They maintain eye contact for a few more fuzzily intense moments. Steve fears that those spinning eyes are going to hypnotize him and penetrate his psyche—perhaps they already have. Vision huffs out an amused breath and, after he has fully enjoyed the view, eventually goes back his knitting.

He wants to stay something in return to Vision’s confession, but he has no idea what. He has never been very good with words. He speaks from his heart, and his thoughts come out awkward and disjointed… he doesn’t want to reveal that part of himself to Vision. Someone like Wanda, he feels, needs that sort of guidance—but Vision? Vision deserves more than tripping words. He deserves majesty, beauty,  _art_.

An overwhelming urge to act flow over him. Steve gropes for the sketchbook he had set aside and takes a pencil from his pocket, hands shaking with inspiration. And, just as he had originally intended, he begins to draw.

Vision is  _beautiful_. He has  _been_  beautiful since the moment he emerged from his cradle, blinking and breathing and new. It had been intimidating at first, how  _perfect_  he truly was (and  _is_ ). Steve remembers muttered conversations, whispered fears,  _elevator’s not worthy_. Looking at him now, though, in such intimate closeness… he has no idea how those thoughts could’ve ever crossed his mind. Vision is angles, lines, bows and colors.  _He_  is the essence of hope, not Steve: how he could think so lowly of himself to rank Steve above him, he would never know.

Vision’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he works. Steve likes the look on his face: it’s terribly human. So he sketches and he shades and he contours, and he longs for some sort of tool he could use to encapsulate the lustrous ruby-red of Vision’s skin, ensnare the glittering emerald-green of his curving crown, embody the gleaming topaz-gold of the stone that twinkles as his third eye with the radiance of a thousand newborn galaxies….

They exchange looks every so often, with Vision meeting Steve’s observant gaze with a breathy laugh and Steve returning it with a lazy grin. He loses track of the time, for it feels like the multiverse itself has slowed to a comfortable crawl, just for the two of them to selfishly indulge in together as they weave their art.

Pencil and paper are unsatisfactory tools with which to capture Vision’s beauty, but he feels like he has done all he can. He is pleased with the result. Steve settles back into the couch once he is done, bathing in the glow of accomplishment. The colors, the softness of yarn, Vision’s nurturing presence—it reminds him of childish innocence, of dreams and wonder and stories of the unknown. He begins to feel drowsy.

It’s amazing that he had not fallen asleep sooner.

When he wakes, he is no longer in the abandoned office, but instead resting rather comfortably in his own bed with his covers pulled over him and his stomach roaring viciously. God,  _food_ —he had been so stricken, he had completely forgotten that he needed to  _eat_.

He rolls over and sits up, only to find that there is a glass of water and a plate of a few diamond-shaped cookies on his bedside table. There is a note attached to them, written in such crisp handwriting, it looks like font.

“ _Steve_ ,” it reads, “ _I envy your skills as an artist as well_.  _I would be lying if I said I was not at least a little bit bitter about that in particular._ ” After an indent: “ _I offer this, as thanks. Rest well_.” It is not signed.

He purses his lips in a too-happy grin, crinkles up the note, and then takes a cookie. It isn’t until halfway through his third that he realizes that something rests beyond the plate on the table, something navy-blue and obtrusively fluffy. Steve stretches for it: it is plush beneath the pads of his fingers, and when he pulls it towards him, it most certainly reveals itself to be a sweater. Not only that, but on the chest is sewn a large, familiar circle, alternating red and white thread until it meets in the center with a noble star.

It feels warm when it glides over his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay man, you caught me: I only wrote this fic because I wanted Vision in a cute, oversized sweater. I was going to have a scene in one of my other fics include something like this, but it didn't, uh... "fit the mood," so I decided against it. Well, this scene a major influence--it wasn't the main reason for this, but it's a big one, ya feel?
> 
> It was so hot the other day, my water bottle melted. It fucking MELTED. But hey, on the bright side... by the time I finish this fic, it might actually be cold outside~!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. War Machine

When asked whether or not some sort of holiday-related paraphernalia should be decked across the halls in honor of the season, no Avenger had given an adequate response. Natasha had chided that they hadn’t celebrated Halloween or Thanksgiving, so why should they do anything else? Sam had shrugged in complete indifference, Scott had hardly been paying attention, Vision had taken the question as an invitation to start analyzing human religion, and Wanda, after asking if anybody else was Jewish, had only responded with a prompt cackle.

The only person who had given a definitive “sure, whatever” was one James Rhodes. Thus, Steve found himself in the midst of figuring out how to assemble  _a goddamn plastic_  tree, with Rhodes struggling to hide his laughter beside him.

“I think, at this point, it would just be better to go out and get a real tree,” Steve mutters as he attempts to clip the fake branch into the base. It doesn’t appear to be the right size or fit, even though the colors on the tags  _should_  match up with those on the base… God, he has no idea what he’s doing. “I can go  _right_  now. I can go knock one down and drag it back, no problem at all. I can do it. I’m serious.”

Rhodes gently takes the branch from him and wedges it near-perfectly into a lower slot. “I don’t doubt it. A real tree would just stink up the place and leave needles everywhere, though. I don’t want to be the one who gets to clean that up.” He gives Steve a kind smile. “Besides, I don’t want Wilson or Maximoff getting on my ass for leaving a mess. No, this is definitely the best compromise.”

Steve watches in admiration as Rhodes takes another branch, fluffs out the evergreen, and effortlessly clips it into the base. As he shakes it, plastic blades of greenery shed and flitter towards the floor. There is already a pile accruing beneath the partly-assembled tree, and Steve swears he can feel specks of it itching him beneath his cotton shirt.

“It looks like it’s shedding as much as any normal tree would,” he grumbles in disappointment.

“Eh, they all do this. It’s nothing a little vacuuming can’t fix. It’s a lot less obtrusive than real pine needles, I guarantee.” He reaches into the opened tree-box on the floor and hands a wad of branches to Steve. “Here, open all of those up and clip them into the third-from-the-bottom row. Yeah… no, that one. Yeah. You got it.”

They were lucky that the tree in front of them was only a miniature rather than life-size. Steve doesn’t trust his patience enough for any endeavor larger than that, especially not with Rhodes as his only companion. It isn’t anything about his character, certainly not… there’s just this childish concern about his loyalties that prods him from time to time, itching him beneath his skin, even though he knows that it’s selfish of him to humor it….

It seems that every one of his problems originated from Tony. Funny, that.

With a bite of his teeth, Steve tears the string holding the bundle together apart and starts unfurling the individual branches. Rhodes is doing the same with his, slowly building the tree up from its bottom. He toils in silence, his only communication with Steve being the awkward, crooked grin that comes when he realizes he’s being watched. He feels as uncomfortable in this situation as Steve does, apparently.

“We don’t get to talk much by ourselves, do we?” Steve asks in an effort to lighten up the nonexistent mood.

“Not unless it’s about combat. This holiday thing has been doing a lot for the team, though, I think—even if I’m still not sure if I agree with it or not.” Rhodes slips another branch into its hold. “You’re a military man… I’m sure you had your problems with it, too. Lemme guess, Romanoff’s idea?”

“You got it.”

“Yeah. I figured.” Rhodes sighs and shakes his head. “Well, it’s probably a good thing. I mean, things are definitely changing—you know what happened to me the other day? It was the weirdest thing.”

Despite the two of them not chatting very often, Rhodes is still very mindful of how he speaks. He is as skilled with his tongue as he is with the War Machine armor—his high rank in the military trained him for such delicate situations, Steve is sure. He seems so  _different_  from Tony, so careful and loyal and… oh, that thought instantly makes him feel guilty. That’s  _unfair_ , he reminds himself.

“What happened?” he asks quickly, trying to erase the previous notion from his mind.

“Well, I was walking towards the kitchen to grab some breakfast—maybe beg Wilson to cook something up if he was around… you know how good he is at cooking, right? He’s a godsend. Anyway… uh, all of a sudden, the Vision pops out of the wall. Literally popped, headfirst and all. And—God, I’m not the only one freaked out when it does that, right? Jesus, it scared the piss out of me.”

Steve chuckles, despite himself. “Can’t even see him coming? Yeah, he’s done that to me a few times, too.”

Rhodes’s brow furrows as he recalls the memory. “I  _told_  it that it scares me shitless, but I think it ignores me on purpose. Anyway, whatever, that’s not the point. It pops out of the wall, right? And it stops me dead in my tracks, hand outstretched and everything. And then it did the whole JARVIS thing where it calls you  _sir_  and  _Colonel_ , and then it just… hands me something.”

Steve has an inkling about where this story is heading. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Guess what it was. Just guess. You’ll never get it.”

“Hmm. A cookie?”

Rhodes can probably sense that Steve is humoring him, but if anything, he appreciates that he isn’t raining on his parade. “It was a sweater. A goddamn  _sweater_. And on top of that, you know what was on it?” He doesn’t wait for Steve to respond this time. “It was  _literally_  the War Machine armor. Down to every last nick and number. It was  _incredible_.”

If it was just as amazingly well-detailed as the Iron Man sweater, Steve has no doubt that it was quite a sight. “You’ll have to wear it around sometime,” he says, giving Rhodes a small nudge with his elbow.

“Well yeah, I kind of have to. After it gave me the thing, it just kind of… looked at me? And the Vision is cool and all, but… I don’t know, man, sometimes it gives me the creeps. So I said thanks, but it just kept  _staring_ , like it was waiting for something. So I, uh… I slipped it on over my head—over my clothes, you know? Thinking that’s what it wanted. And then you know what happened?”

“What?”

“It  _laughed_  at me. The Vision  _giggled_  at me, and then just… floated away. Through the wall, as per freakin’ usual.” Rhodes turns to Steve, half-mortified and searching for solace. “I swear to God, I have  _never_  seen it laugh before. Ever. And it laughed at  _me_! How the hell am I supposed to deal with that?”

Steve can envision the scenario pretty damn perfectly in his head. Rhodes looking sheepish and confused, while the Vision attempted to maintain a straight face for as long as he could, just to tease him… it sounds like the both of them, certainly. He wonders who else had received a sweater—everyone on the team…?

“Well,” he says, clipping one of the final branches into place, “I think he likes you. I mean, he  _knitted you a sweater_. That has to mean you’re high up on his friend list, right?”

“I have no idea, dude. I talked to Scotty the other day, and he said had a similar experience. I guess it’s just a… thing. I don’t get it.” He leans back and straightens his spine, rolling his shoulders back with a pop. “Oh, man. How long does it even take to build one of these little suckers? Hey, Cap—how many Avengers does it take to put up a Christmas tree?”

Steve snickers as he struggles to snap the last remaining branch on his row into place. “In my defense, I haven’t done this before,” he burbles. “Ah. I can’t get this one in, either. Do you want me to force it?”

Rhodes gives him a dubious raise of his brows. “If you force it, I don’t think we’ll ever be able to get it back off. You’ll probably weld the two things together. Here, let me.” He holds out his hand and, after a soft curse on Steve’s part, takes the branch. Steve shuffles out of the way to make room for his attempt.

“Oh man. This thing doesn’t want to go in.” Rhodes bends his knees and brings one of his hands up to steady the core of the tree. “Maybe if I change the ang— _shit_!”

He leaps back a good couple of feet, waving and flicking his hand as if he has just been burned. His mouth is on autopilot, screaming every filthy word in the dictionary (including some modern ones that elude the thawed soldier). Steve, blinking in shock, rushes to his side and holds out his hands, although there isn’t much he can do.

“C-Colonel? Are you all right?”

His response is another long string of curses. Really, Steve doesn’t know what he had been expecting.

When Rhodes calms down enough to stop the frantic spasm of his hand, Steve lunges forward to grab his arm. “Let me look at it,” he commands with great seriousness, as if they were out on the field and  _not_  standing in front of a nearly-constructed Christmas tree.

“No, it’s fine—just pinched it, that’s all—ah,  _fuck_ ….” At least he’s forming sentences now.

Steve turns his arm over and inspects the hand. The skin around the second knuckle of Rhodes’s index finger is swelling, and a tiny dribble of blood is forming along a small cut. It can hardly even be described as a wound, but that doesn’t stop Steve from clucking with concern like a mother hen.

“Let’s go patch this up,” he says as he pats Rhodes’s back.

“What the hell, man, it’s just a pinch!” His voice raises a bit too highly in pitch. “It’s fine! Let’s just finish this damn thing before anything else can happen….”

“No way—I don’t trust this tree for an instant. It’ll probably just bite you again. We’re cleaning you up first.” Steve cuts him off before he can raise another objection. “That’s an order, soldier.”

Rhodes glares at him resentfully, but he has no choice but to oblige. He follows the guidance of Steve’s pushing hand and walks forward, mumbling under his breath the whole while. Steve continues to massage comforting circles into his back as he leads them towards the nearest bathroom.

The cut washes easily, and fortunately for them, every Avengers-brand bathroom comes equipped with a plentiful supply of Avengers-brand first-aid supplies. As Steve advances on him with a long, elastic bandage, though, Rhodes flinches back.

“It’s just a cut, Cap,” he tries to reiterate, frowning harshly. “Maybe I could use a Band-Aid or something, but don’t you think that’s a little much?”

Steve blinks. “I didn’t see any in there.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Rhodes gestures with his eyes towards the drawer. “Look again.”

Steve begrudgingly complies. After a few seconds of rummaging, he locates a box of Avengers-brand Band-Aids: literal Avengers-brand, too. The box has him, Iron Man, and the Hulk, all looking intense and mighty as bright blue-and-red flames swirl around their faces. His natural instinct is to curse Tony and his goddamn  _marketing,_ but this is hardly the time or place to worry about that.

“Who do you want stopping your blood?” Steve asks, showing Rhodes the box.

The other man tenses in obvious discomfort, and his lips purse tightly together. “C’mon, man. What the hell. Is this a test?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Like hell you don’t. Gimme a Hulk one,” he says as quickly as is physically possible. Apparently, that question is to be answered at a later time.

Steve shrugs his shoulders, rifles inside the box, and then peels the bandage from its plastic wrap. “Smart choice,” he murmurs, and then he smooths the lime-green Band-Aid on over Rhodes’s knuckle. He gives his hand a friendly pat once it is finally covered.

Rhodes looks ashamed and woefully avoids eye contact. “It was really just a pinch, man. You didn’t need to do all of that.” He examines the bandage on his finger and sighs with great exhaustion. “You definitely didn’t need to give me a little kid’s Band-Aid.”

“Not covering an open wound can lead to infection. I was doing you a favor,” Steve says, nodding his head. “I don’t even want to know where that tree’s been.”

Rhodes groans and gives his hand another shake. “God, you sound like a doting wife,” he whines.

“Better that than letting you suffer.”

He looks at Steve in the face, still frowning. He can only maintain the firm gaze for a moment before he has to glance away, down towards the floor. “Thanks, Steve. You’re a good guy.” His words, despite being soft and somewhat muffled, are heartfelt.

When they come back into the room with the tree, they find the duo of Sam and Scott fiddling with the single remaining branch. They can tell that’s what they’re up to, for Scott jumps back a second later with a howling screech. Unlike Steve (who once again leaps into action, despite Rhodes trying to hold him back), Sam’s first reaction is to erupt into bellowing laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhodey is a big bundle of fun~ it feels weird not calling him “Rhodey,” so I went with “Rhodes” instead. James is just… I don’t know. You never really hear him addressed by it, so I don't think of him when I hear it. Like, I don't think of Bucky as James, either, you feel?
> 
> I kind of forgot that this fic wasn't posted yet, ahaha... sorry about that. Thanks for reading, anyway!


	6. The Falcon

“Man, I’m sick of all of this goddamn snow. Summer can’t come around fast enough, if you ask me.”

“You won’t be saying that when it’s hot and humid and miserable.”

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t want, Steve.”

There’s something whimsical about snow, Steve thinks, and there’s something cathartic about crushing it and squishing it and tossing it high into the air. If he is to maintain that kind of positive attitude, then the fact that he is shoveling snow out from in front of one of the various on-site garages may not seem quite so bad. In all honesty, it isn’t: it’s actually rather nice. Steve misses the toil of progress… it feels refreshing to be able to _do_ something again. (In fact, he had sought the task out—Natasha had tried to talk him out of swindling the duty from the lawn crew, but the fight had been worth it. Granted, the only reason he had won was because Sam had been present to back him up.)

Sam is dressed in a heavy, dark-gray coat, buttoned so high that Steve can only see his eyes and bridge of his nose. Even with only those exposed, he looks absolutely miserable… he’s shaking, too. It’s quite cold out outside, but the breezy chill isn’t as bad as it _ludicrously_ is—they’re lucky it isn’t worse.

“I’ll take sweat and tans any day over this shit.” Sam buries his shovel into the slush and chucks the load over his shoulder. “I think the sweat on my neck is forming icicles _on my skin_. Man, I’m getting real tired of Natasha and her sadistic streak. Making me come out here with you… what did I do to her?”

“I think Nat just likes to tease,” Steve says with a warm-hearted grin. “Besides, this gives us some quality time to talk, doesn’t it?”

“You know I love spending time with you, but I’m not sure if even _you’re_ worth suffering through this misery. I don’t think anybody is.” Sam looks up at Steve as he’s spading—he can tell that he’s smiling just from the crinkles forming around his eyes

Steve pauses his work and leans against his shovel. Sam is right about one thing: it would be a far more pleasant experience if they were working in summer (and, say, didn’t have such heavy clothes chafing and sticking to them uncomfortably).

“You love spending time with me?” he repeats, amused.

Sam huffs a wispy breath. “You want me to say it again? Sure, fine, whatever—you’re a fun guy, Steve, and it’s fun being around you. If you wanted to hang more, you could just say the word, and I’d be there in a flash. Except, you know… hanging out usually involves warmth, and maybe food—hand-holding, movies, blankets—that whole bit. Not goddamn manual labor.”

“You would rather see a movie and hold hands?” Steve asks, raising his brows. “Well, I know _I_ didn’t have any plans after this, so if you’re not busy….”

“Don’t you even start with the cheesy pick-up lines. That’s my shtick.” He gives Steve a somewhat stern look. “Get back to digging, while you’re at it! Don’t just stand there and watch me. I’ll get stage fright.”

Steve catches himself; oh, he hadn’t meant to rest for so long. He had been so absorbed in their conversation, he had lost his way in it. Sam has a habit of doing that to him….

He mumbles a soft “sorry” and begins to shovel more diligently than before. A Steve Rogers working at full capacity easily surpasses the horsepower of an entire squadron of men—thus, the snow beneath their shoes begins to vanish at an exponential rate.

At some point, Sam shimmies out of the way and watches Steve clear away the frost. “What do you even need me for?” he wonders aloud, whistling a note of praise from between his teeth.

Steve answers his question with a twinkling laugh and a half-twitch of a wink. “You provide nice company.”

“Oh, so I’m your cheerleader, is that it?”

“You’re still part of the team. You’re my partner, and don’t you forget it.”

Sam snorts. “Sidekick, it’s more like.” He can’t be that bothered, for his tone is still full of good humor. He sticks his shovel back into the snow and continues scooping, even if Steve is already doing work sufficient enough for him and a dozen others.

With their combined efforts, the garage is freed from its snowy confines in no time at all. It could be opened fairly easily now, although mountains of white foam loom over it from either of its sides, like great ballroom archways. In retrospect, they probably should have evened it out better… but the task is done, and neither of them feel particularly bothered to fix it.

“Hopefully they can get whatever they need out of it now,” Sam says as he observes their masterpiece. “This garage is just for old Stark tech, isn’t it? I think this is the same building Scotty—uh.” He stumbles over his words. “…Visited.”

Steve pretends like he doesn’t know what Sam is talking about and instead only focuses on the question itself. “You’re right about the tech. They’re probably stripping everything out to bring back to the corporation.” He tries not to let himself sound too bitter.

“Dicks,” Sam murmurs under his breath, and Steve has to smile at that. He knows that Sam would always stay by his side… perhaps not on every matter, but he certainly wouldn’t choose _Tony_ over him. Steve has no idea what he has done to merit such a kind person in his life.

“They’re just doing their job,” he offers.

“Doesn’t change the fact that they’re working for a dick,” Sam declares, and he maintains the most serious face he can with half of it covered. He is exceptionally intuitive: he knows _exactly_ what Steve wants (or needs) to hear from him. He really, _really_ doesn’t deserve his friendship.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“For what? Stating a fact?” He squints at him suspiciously, as if he has no idea what he’s prattling on about. It’s difficult to read his entire expression, but Steve is pretty sure that he’s being scolded.

The two set their shovels against the wall of the building and start to make their way back to the dormitory area, per Sam’s request. Trucks drive along the icy roads slower than normal, and footmen meticulously work to clean and salt the walkways. Even something as grand and untouchable as the Avengers’ HQ is still susceptible to the ancient might of Mother Nature, it seems.

They walk comfortably, their chatter inane and pleasant. Sam wanders a few paces behind Steve, though their conversation is not affected.

“Natasha had better go and look at the awesome work we did. If she doesn’t, I’m gonna make her myself.”

“She’s probably still in the main building, warm and happy. I wouldn’t make her leave that.”

“She made _me_.”

“I think that was punishment for supporting me in our argument.”

Sam laughs shortly. “She just felt left out, I’m sure. We should probably apologize to her.”

Steve wrinkles his forehead at that. Why would they need to apologize? Had he done something wrong? Sure, he had argued, but that was only because she hadn’t given him an opportunity to accomplish anything of worth for a while—what did Sam mean by “left out?” It sounds like he had implied something, but he has difficulty deciphering the code.

The confusion must be evident in his gait, for Sam is quick to speak up and hush his concerns. “Don’t worry about it, Steve. I was just joking around.” His tone sounds too serious to be entirely truthful, but Steve has no idea how to counter such a statement. “Just playing.”

He stops in his tracks and peeks over his shoulder. Sam is looking towards the sky, admiring the swirls of pale silver and baby blue. Even if there is something deeper beneath his words, Steve can’t find it within himself to pry. He has faith in Sam—if it were something of great importance, he would never keep it from him.

“Whatever you say,” he says easily, although he mentally jots the conversation down for later pondering. Sam notices how he is being stared at and offers him another wrinkly-eyed smile. Steve takes that as a sign to keep walking.

The main building for lodging and recreation comes into view, as formidable as always. Not as many people trifle around outside as they had the other buildings, perhaps in fear of waking or upsetting a particular Avenger. No—the air is eerily quiet, and the stillness overwhelming. It feels like life itself has been sucked dry from this one acre of earth.

“No place like home, huh?” Sam says from behind him.

Steve stifles and pulls on his sleeves. Home? Is that what this is? This cold, desolate building—colored in bleak whites and dull grays and transparent glass—this is home?

“Even if it is a little… scary-looking, right?”

Scary? Perhaps. Home? For Steve, home is still Brooklyn, painted in the fading, sepia hues of the past. His home doesn’t exist anymore—visiting it had only made the realization hit him harder. Time had stripped it bare, killed it, buried it… as time does with all things. He doesn’t have a home, not really—and some tears simply couldn’t be mended. Parts may break, may heal, and may be replaced with something else entirely… but home? That was something too dear to him to forget so easily, no matter what reassurances he had given others.

“Hey.”

His SHIELD apartment hadn’t even been his home, not for a second. The Tower? He can’t recall those memories—of drinks and parties, of high-pitched laughter, of gentle touches on the shoulder and brushes of the hand and the tickle of stubble against his cheek—without wanting to throw up. Perhaps it _was_ a home, once, but that too had been drowned by the stream of time. He is nothing: the man without a home, the man without a country.

He feels like crying.

“Hey. Steve.”

The sound of his name startles him out of his lucid thoughts. He spins towards the sound of Sam’s voice, cheeks and ears flushed from embarrassment and anger as well as the biting chill. “What—”

Something cold and wet hits him, smack in the middle of his chest.

He blinks. That’s all he really can do. He blinks, and he looks down at his jacket: remnants of a wad of snow stick to him, brittle and frail. He blinks, and he looks at Sam: his hand is where his mouth would be beneath the cloth, and he snorts in an effort to hold back a bellow of a laugh.

“Don’t keep your back turned for too long,” he lectures through his snickers. “Oh, man! I’m sorry… you were spacing out, and I couldn’t resist the urge. I haven’t done that in a long time!”

Steve’s lip twitches. He isn’t sure if he should feel amused or betrayed. “Haven’t done what? Attacked me?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Can’t even think of the last time I attacked you,” Sam drawls with what is sure to be a grin. He bends down and scoops some more snow into his hand, working it into a hard, compact ball. “No, I mean—you did this back when you were little, right? Snowball fights? C’mon, I refuse to believe that you haven’t done this before.”

Steve had, indeed. The memories are crinkled around the edges, colors faded and motions stiff, but yes, he remembers well—

Another snowball hits him, this time in the stomach.

Sam howls in laughter. “Well, reminiscing ain’t gonna help you now, either way!” He tugs on his hood and pulls it back to improve his vision. The high collar around his mouth pops back, too, to reveal a smile that is so wide, so beautiful, that Steve’s wandering mind stops right where it is to observe and admire.

“Are you just gonna stand there and take that?” Sam challenges, fingers splayed and shoulders cocked in a taunt. “I’ll take whatever victory I can get over you, man.”

Whatever road Steve’s mind had been heading down vaporizes into mist, and suddenly, he is completely focused on the present. His bushy eyebrows lower and his lips curl in a look that could only be described as one of “ _really, now?_ ”

“Is this mutiny, Sam?” he asks, tone playful.

Sam is too busy wadding up another ball to come up with anything witty. “Definitely, Cap,” is all he says, before he launches it at Steve’s face.

He ducks out of the way, super-serumed instincts sharpened to perfection. Steve surveys his surroundings and locates cover in the form of the decorative bushes lining the way to the entrance of the main building. He grabs a handful of snow and then sprints towards one, throwing himself behind it.

He hears a confused whine coming from the now-distant Sam. “Oh, c’mon! Cheap!”

Steve balls the snow into a clump, then peeks around the side of the bush to see Sam jogging closer, carrying his own snowballs in either hand. Steve tosses the lump at him, hard enough to land on target but not powerfully enough to bruise.

It hits Sam in the thigh and he yelps a cry of confusion. “Dude! What the hell?” He mutters something, but Steve can’t pick up the words. He only hears a grumbled “lucky shot,” before Sam goes quiet. Even the padding of his footsteps silences.

Steve waits with his back against the bristly, dead twigs of the bush and balls up more wads of snow, rolling them and setting them in a pile by his side. If Sam wants to fight, then hell, they’ll fight: he’ll put on the best damn show he can. Once he has a secure arsenal of nine or ten snowballs, he plucks one from the pile and peeps around the bush. To his surprise, Sam is no longer in sight at all.

He grunts and is about to survey his sides, when another snowball clonks him on the side of the head. When the stars bursting through his vision fade, he sees that Sam is standing over him, hooting, and is using the opportunity of Steve’s momentary shock to ready another throw. Steve has to heave himself towards the ground, but he isn’t quick enough: it still hits him in the back.

In an act of retaliation, Steve chucks a snowball towards the unsuspecting Sam, landing square on his chest. He reaches towards his pile and grabs his other ones, bombarding him as quickly as he can. Sam shrinks and covers his head, panicked, and then jumps behind another bush into the thick layer of snow on the ground. He lands softly, and Steve can see how he lands face down into the froth, and how his back shakes with the rumbles of laughter.

Chuckles bubble from Steve’s mouth as well, and the realization hits that he has been laughing nearly the entire time. The scenario is so ridiculous, so absurd… it is impossible not to giggle. His laughter swells, and he finds that he has reached the point where he cannot even move, for the bellows are so great; they make his muscles ache and his chest shrink, and he feels weak and invincible and utterly exuberant. Sam’s head raises and he too overwhelmed with fearsome laughter. His hand trembles as it brushes the snow away from his face.

Steve manages the strength to heave himself over to Sam: he doesn’t have the power to stand, only shakily crawl. “Y-you all right, buddy?” he asks, his words stuttering and faint.

Sam glances up at him, his eyes shining like twinkling stars. “You’ve killed me,” he says, his chest still heaving. “What the hell, man.”

“You started it! Don’t you dare pin this on me.” Steve helps bat some of the snow that Sam missed away from his face and neck. “A snowball fight, though? Really, soldier?”

“It was fun,” he says smoothly. “Hey, how do you feel about bringing everybody out here for a big snowball fight sometime? I’d love to see them get super competitive.”

“I think they’d get _too_ competitive. Could you imagine, a snowball fight with Wanda and Scott? I think they would end up killing each other.”

“Man, I’d still like to see it, though. It would be a blast. Literally.” Sam’s smile is fond, and he finally settles with his laughter. “Jesus, it’s cold down here. Why the hell did I do this to myself?”

Steve shrugs his shoulders. “Only you can answer that question. For what it’s worth, I’m cold too.”

“Yeah, right! You don’t need to try to make me feel better about myself—I’m no super-soldier. I bet you don’t even get cold—I mean, you survived for seventy years in an ice cube. That has to count for something.”

“I’m serious!” Steve cries, and gives Sam the most pathetic, honest look he can muster. That only makes him snort in even more laughter.

“Okay, okay. I get it. How about we call a truce and head inside to get warm?” He holds out his hand. “I think I might make you follow through on that movie date, Cap.”

Steve beams, taking his hand in an instant. They use each other as leverage to stand, and are soon back on firm footing. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He doesn’t let go of Sam’s hand until they enter the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your fave is problematic: Me  
> Reason: Jokes about putting off finishing winter fic until winter, proceeds to actually do it
> 
> ...Sorry about that. It all honesty, it was a combination of stress and just general laziness. But hey, it's here, so yay! I realize now that, with the recent Civil War trailer, this doesn't match up at all with any sort of timeline. But, uh... that's what fanfiction's... for? Yeah.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Bonus

Sam suggests that they both change into something warmer and more comfortable before they settle down to watch anything. Due to the wet snow still clinging to Steve’s legs and back, he readily agrees, and he heads to his quarters to shed off his heavy winter clothes.

He only gets colder as he strips more and more layers from his body. His naked skin is sensitive to the cool air, and every one of his nerves stand up on end. After a rub-down with a blanket, he isn’t wet anymore, but he is still terribly, terribly chilly.

Steve slips on a pair of sweatpants, sighing as warmth envelops his legs. His chest still burns, though, and his nipples are pricked to a painful point; he needs something else warm, before he freezes.

He shuffles around in his drawers for a while, until he manages to locate the perfect garment. The sweater Vision him given him, still as beautiful as the day he had gotten it, is thick, intimately soft, and _incredibly_ warm. He wears it frequently, and is familiar with the plush texture against his skin… although he has never worn it out-and-about. He has simply never gotten the chance to dress so casually.

He feels a bit vulnerable, wandering out of his room in a slightly oversized sweater—surely it had to be jarring to see Captain America in such childish attire. However, when he sees Sam standing with his back against the wall, dressed in an equally large, white turtleneck, all of his concerns are instantly quelled.

“Is that from Vision, too?” Steve asks as he approaches him. Sam looks up and tilts his head, inspecting his attire.

“I see you got one, too,” he says kindly. “It’s super comfortable. I wear it around all the time. But, hey—why doesn’t yours have a turtleneck?” He pulls at his own neckline and frowns at it. “How am I supposed to interpret this…?”

He mutters more complaints to himself as he turns away. Once he is fully turned, Steve sees that the back of his sweater is embroidered with the arching pattern of two gigantic, red wings, furling from the center of his back to his sides. He can’t help but stare at the way the feathers twist as he walks, as if they are in mid-flight.

They decide to head to one of the small side rooms they know for certain has a big TV and an even bigger couch. Sam lists off a collection of movies, quizzing Steve on whether he has seen them or not. He’s shocked when he hears that he’s made some major headway since their last movie conversation.

“Okay, so you’ve seen _Star Wars_ , but not _Star Trek_? It’s all space politics—you’ll love it.”

“I’m not really sure I’m a big space guy,” Steve admits as he traipses alongside him.

“Hmm. We don’t have to watch something big, you know. It’s almost Christmas—we could watch one of those really cheesy Claymation specials that even _my_ parents watched when they were kids.” His face lights up. “Dude, have you seen any of those?”

Steve shakes his head. “No? I don’t think I know what you’re talking about…?”

They approach the closed door to the specific room. Odd, Steve thinks off-handedly—doors are usually left open, or at least slightly cracked.

“Let’s watch one of those, then! We have to get your cultured.” Sam turns the knob and swings the door open, still talking. “Those things are everywhere around this time, so I’m kinda surprised that you haven’t heard of them before now—oh.”

Sam’s jaw snaps shut. Steve bristles in worry and follows his gaze towards the center of the room, only to see the cause for his sudden silence. Curled up on the couch rests two figures: one Steve recognizes as Natasha from the bright red hue of her curls. She’s spread out, legs up on the couch, with somebody nestled comfortably in between them (and basically on top of her). Steve squints, and it takes him a moment to recognize that the woman draped over her is Wanda, looking utterly distraught and humiliated.

“Hey there, boys,” Natasha greets easily, raising a hand in a wave. Her other hand lightly massages Wanda’s back. Steve is speechless—he has never seen Wanda get so close to somebody like that before, not since Pietro. Even with him, she would still shy away from the gentlest of touches… and yet here she is, sprawled out on top of Natasha like she was a cat on a mattress.

“I’m sorry, is this room taken?” Sam inquires with a waggle of his brows. He’s smirking—why is he smirking? He and Natasha are sharing silent, knowing looks with one another… Steve feels wronged that he’s left out of it. Is this new?

Wanda scrambles off of Natasha and sits up straight, her frizzy hair sticking up on end. She is also wearing a sweater—hers is black, with thick swirls of red that look to make the shape of a curvy “M” (for “Maximoff,” if he had to guess—what else could it be for?).

“No,” she says as she moves to stand, but Natasha fumbles to grab the back of her (oversized—they were all so tastefully oversized!) sleeve.

“It’s not taken, exactly. Wanda and I were just watching a movie. You’re free to join us.” Natasha shoots Wanda a scolding look. “I think more company would be nice, don’t you, _sweetie_?”

Wanda stares back at her, absolutely horrified.

Steve coughs, his discomfort obvious. “There are other rooms. We can go ahead and move to one of those,” he says, slowly moving backwards. However, Sam takes his arm, trapping him there just as Natasha is trapping Wanda.

“Don’t be like that, Steve! We’re all _friends_ here.” Natasha puts emphasis on that one word as she glares at the other woman. “There’s plenty of room on this couch for everyone. We’ll stop taking up the whole thing and you can come and join us, how about that?”

Wanda mutters something in Russian, and Natasha responds to her back in it, snippily. She says something that’s enough to calm her down, for Wanda sags back onto the couch and scoots over so she is pressed flush against the now-sitting Nat. Natasha has a sweater on, too—black, with a bright red hourglass in the center… God, it’s just a sweater party, apparently! Steve can barely contain his abounding joy.

Sam walks forward towards the couch, gently pulling Steve along with him. He sits so that he is on the armrest-side, forcing Steve to sit next to the disgruntled Wanda. “So, what were you two watching?”

Natasha leans forward, peeking around Wanda. “The ice princess movie,” she states. “I was getting Wanda accustomed to American pop culture. She loves it.”

“Your American cartoons are foolish,” Wanda hisses, sinking back into the couch with a pout and a huff.

“Oh man, how far are you?” Sam asks. “We’ll have to update Steve on it. I’m sure—”

“Sam, this movie came out after I was in the ice. I haven’t lived in a hole.”

“I have,” Wanda says, words touched with spite.

“Now, now, babies—play nice.” Natasha strokes Wanda’s hair. “We’re about twenty minutes in. We could stop, if you really want to… what were you planning on watching?”

“Oh, it’s not important. We were going to watch some old Christmas specials, since Steve hasn’t seen any.”

“I am Jewish.”

“There’s that. Personally, I would want to watch modern Disney cartoons over those old things any day. This thing’s practically a Christmas movie, anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess. Some other time, then.” Sam reaches over to Steve’s lap and takes his hand into his own, giving it a squeeze. He startles, but doesn’t shy away from the touch. “Is this okay with you?”

Steve feels all too warm. One of his thighs is pressed flushed against Sam, his heat burning him through their sweats. His other side is hot from Wanda, although she is much closer to Natasha than he. He doesn’t feel offended—he gets it, of course—but he still feels like they have intruded on something very, very personal.

“I’m fine,” he says to Sam with a small smile. He offers the same look to Natasha, who grins like a Cheshire cat, and to Wanda, who flushes and crosses her arms even more tightly over her chest. “Unless there’s something you’d rather watch more, Wanda?”

The woman turns her head away from him. “We have already watched this much. It would be wasteful to quit now.” Her voice is gruff.

Natasha gives her an affectionate shake. “Aw, you do like it! See, I knew this type of movie would be right up your alley!” She would have continued shaking, but Wanda sends her a glare that could slaughter the mightiest of warriors, so she settles down into the couch cushions instead.

Steve has seen this movie before. He can’t exactly recall how or where, but he definitely knows that he’s familiar with the story. He focuses more on the people on the couch with him—Sam had let go of his hand at some point and now is resting it comfortably on his thigh. Natasha seems more focused on twisting Wanda’s hair around her fingers than the movie, and when she catches Steve looking at her, she gives him a coy wink. Wanda herself eventually slips into relaxation, cozily drawing back up from the depths of the couch and resting more in the combined warmth of him and Natasha. She leans towards him a little, her previous malice dissipated for the time being.

When her eyes eventually meet Steve’s wandering ones, another blush creeps up her face, and she lowers her gaze. For some unholy reason, he can see Natasha and Sam both winking at him from either side, and he too feels the need to glance away in shame.

It isn’t until fifteen or so minutes later that the door bursts open again, making everyone jump.

“No, you can’t get the experience unless you actually sit down and watch it. No downloading, no cheating, no nothing. You’re gonna sit down and watch this whole damn movie—hey!” When Colonel Rhodes’s eyes scan over the group piled onto the couch, he too leaps back in shock. “What the hell is going on in here?”

“Hey, it’s Jim!” Natasha says, giddy enough for all of them. She leans over to pause the movie for what Steve assumes is the umpteenth time.

From behind Rhodes, Vision leans to the side and peers into the room, his head tilted drastically. “It appears that other people visit this ‘secret room’ of yours as well, Colonel,” he says as flatly as possible.

“And Vizh,” Sam helpfully adds.

Rhodes’s face is twisted into complete and utter confusion. He looks from person to person, and when he focuses on Steve, the captain can only give offer him a sympathetic shrug. “What are… you guys… doing?”

“Watching Disney,” sings Natasha, and beckons them forward with the roll of her hand. “You guys should totally join us! I think we can fit… one of you guys on the couch, but yeah. Otherwise, pull up a chair!”

Rhodes only grows more heated. “Wait—wait a second. Are you guys all in… sweaters?”

Vision makes a sudden, curious move forward. “Sweaters?” he repeats, his voice small and hopeful. Indeed—everybody is garbed in the presents they had been given… everyone, it seems, except Rhodey, who is only wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

Vision bites his lip and holds a hand up to his mouth, as if trying to hide a particularly proud smile.

Sam wiggles in his as an answer. “They’re really comfortable, what can we say?” His eyes glint in cruel amusement. “Why aren’t you wearing yours, Jim? Do you not like it?”

Embarrassment and annoyance flare behind Rhodes’s eyes. “No—I mean, yes! I mean, uh, shit.” He stammers over his words, slowly backing up out of the doorway and into the hall. “I’ll be right back.” He turns on his heel and sprints down the hallway, leaving his companion behind.

Natasha giggles, and the circling of her hand grows even more vehement. “While that goof is off, why don’t you come in and join us, Vision? Although, I have to say… I’m kind of curious as to why you were walking in together with him in the first place.”

Vision takes a step forward, although he is far enough away to keep the door propped open. “I believe the answer is simpler than you would imagine, Agent Romanoff,” he states, still from behind his hand. “Colonel Rhodes wanted to educate me on matters concerning the art of film and the indulgence thereof. He wished me to comply, so I did—his plan was to watch a DVD with me, I believe.” He curls his fingers and lowers his hand, looking mildly concerned. “I do not wish to intrude onto your gathering, so I will exit and tell him that we can find another room.”

“C’mon, Vizh, don’t be like that!” Natasha cries.

“The more the merrier!” Sam tries.

“Suffer with me,” Wanda chides.

Vision wears that same bemused expression, and his glowing eyes glance from the couch back towards the door in dismay. “The room is already quite crowded. I do not believe it was built to hold this many people comfortably. I really don’t want to intrude.”

This time, Steve finds himself speaking up before anybody else can. “There’s always room for you, Vision,” he says gently, and he feels the heads of everyone on the couch turn to look at him. He ignores them, and instead pats the sliver of couch that’s open between him and Sam. “Why don’t you come in and stay with us, for a bit? Unless, of course, you don’t want to.” Of course he wants Vision to join them—rather, he doesn’t want to exclude him. They were all part of the team.

“Oh—dear.” Vision grimaces, or at least something close to it. He holds his arm and pulls it closer to himself, like a timid child or schoolgirl, once again completely contrasting with his half-demigod façade (the same ugly sweater as before doesn’t help matters). “Well, I suppose… if you’re all requesting it, I can stay for a while.”

“All right!” Sam suddenly presses against Steve, much to his immediate surprise. “Everybody, scoot over so we can make room for them, all right?”

Natasha does her best, but ends up half-laying on the arm of the couch. Wanda follows after her, and Steve too. Their legs and knees are touching, he notices, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Perhaps she feels like she doesn’t have a choice, or she doesn’t notice.

He cranes his head towards her and whispers into her ear, hopefully at enough of a distance as to not startle her. “Are you all right with… this?” he asks.

Wanda baulks. It takes her a second, but she does nod, although she doesn’t look him in the face.

“If you would prefer,” Vision suggests, “I could hover over the couch, as well as lay on the floor. In addition, I could join you on the couch, but lower my density so you would not be able to feel my presence—”

“No,” pretty much everyone objects (with alarming speed). Sam is the first to recover with some amount of grace, and is quick to say, “You don’t need to do that for us. Here, sit next to me.”

Vision still looks very much concerned, but he gives into their pleading anyway. He slinks towards them soundlessly and then sits against the armrest, propped against it like Natasha on the opposite side. Steve finds himself crammed in the center of a warm layer-cake of Avengers, Wanda and Sam both completely invalidating his personal space.

“Everybody good?” Natasha asks, grinning down the couch. Wanda hisses something in Russian, and she takes it as an invitation to unpause the movie. From Steve’s other side, he hears Sam say something soothing to Vision, who—when Steve catches a glimpse of him—still looks immensely out-of-place.

Steve feels as uncomfortable as Wanda and Vision look. The warmth from the heat of their combined bodies is far too great for one small room, much less one couch… the heaviness of their matching sweaters only makes the feeling worse. A haggard breath leaves his lips.

He feels a gentle touch on his knee—surprisingly not from his left, but his right. Wanda’s hand kisses the thick fabric ever so gently, and she looks up at him with dark eyes. He feels the heat bubbling in his chest rise all the way to his cheeks.

“I’m fine,” he mouths but doesn’t say, and clasps his hand over her much smaller one. She looks like her first instinct is to pull away, but he catches Natasha giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. So instead, Wanda can only steam, and she draws her attention back to the dancing images on the screen.

Twenty or so minutes pass before the slightly ajar door swings open again, revealing an aggravated-looking Rhodes in his own War Machine-brand sweater. “I’m back,” he mutters.

“You’re back!” Natasha cheers, waving him in and, once again, pausing the flick.

Vision snorts something that sounds like a laugh, and his hands travel back to his face to hide it. “I was afraid you had gotten lost.”

“C’mon, man. I got hung up.” The skin below his eye twitches. “I had to bring Scott with me.”

“Hey!” The aforementioned man jumps out from behind him, spreading his arms out and giving them all a very offended shrug. “What the hell, guys? You didn’t tell me you were having a sweater movie party! I’m part of the team now, so I want to be invited to these fun things, too!”

Sam wriggles against Steve. “Okay, the only way that you guys can fit on here is if Scott shrinks and Jim lays on top of all of us. Brace yourselves.”

“I will move,” Vision says and prepares to get up, but Sam grabs his wrist and hisses a stern “ _oh no you won’t_.”

“In our defense, it didn’t exactly start off like this,” Steve explains, his laughter soft. He never even _expected_ this. “We didn’t mean to leave you out.”

Scott’s annoyance calms at the sound of Steve’s placid reasoning. He too is wrapped in a sweater, emblazoned with the same zig-zagging pattern of ants against tacky green that had been on Cassie’s, as he had seen a couple of days prior. The man clenches his fists and looks like he wants to prod further, but doesn’t.

“You’re lucky you have a cute face, Cap,” he finally says, and Steve’s mouth drops in both embarrassment and confusion.

“Don’t be mean,” Natasha warns with a wink. “Okay, well. You guys are going to have to sit on the floor, since you’re late to the party. I’m not letting either of you crawl on top of me, and I don’t think anybody else would appreciate it, either.”

Scott bounds in before Rhodes, eagerly skidding on the carpet as he slides to his knees. “What are we watching—oh, this movie? I’ve watched this a thousand times with Cassie! It’s great stuff.” His beam is bright enough the light the dimmest of dark. He sits on the ground in between Steve and Sam’s legs, leaning so that his back brushes against them. If Steve felt boxed in before, now it’s just comical. Rhodes moves in to follow, and he takes a spot on the ground near Natasha’s side of the couch. The movie, again, begins to play.

So there they sit—every Avenger, perfectly snug and cozy as they press into each other, all connected as one. Steve _should_ feel claustrophobic, considering how close everyone is to him… but strangely enough, he doesn’t. Instead, his chest glows with warmth, and his heartbeat slows to a rhythm of comfort. He is calm, calmer than he has been in a very, very long while. It’s something about the way Natasha winks at him when she catches his eye, and the way Wanda accepts his hand on her own—or, maybe, it has something to do with Sam’s head on his shoulder, or Vision’s shy but pleased batting of his eyes—perhaps, it’s how Scott is glued to the cartoon on the screen, or how Rhodes scratches at the folds of his sweater.

These people, he thinks, are Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Here the monsters sleep in their den, snug and oh-so vulnerable. Memories spin in his brain, some slick and some rusty, of fragile moments like these from his past—of the youthful, wintertime kisses shared with another in Brooklyn, and of the whispers and dreams and coarseness of nights shared with an even bigger _another_ in New York. He knows what this feeling is, this feeling of absolute serenity that washes over him, bathing him in perfection—he hasn’t felt it since those distant times.

He should be frightened of it, Steve thinks. He should be very afraid, and yet he is not. He is completely at peace—instead of fighting it, he indulges in it. He lets love’s tender fingers spin art with his heart and his mind and his soul. Oh, how weak he is—weak like a child. Weak like that scrawny kid from Brooklyn, still completely blinded by love in all of its cruelty.

He knows he’s being foolish. This is only a moment, a still-life: like the cold before the warmth of spring. The strings holding the team together are already taut, ready to be pulled undone at any instant. It’s his fault—Tony’s fault—Bucky’s fault—HYDRA’s. His life is about to shatter, just as it had all of those years ago, and just as it had a few months prior. The fault, he realizes, is nobody’s: it is but the nature of life.

Still, it is nice to feel at home – even if it doesn’t last beyond the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Then Civil War happened and everybody got sad and died.
> 
> You may have noticed that I added an alarming amount of pairing tags that weren’t there before. While these scenes aren’t… romantic romantic, I feel like they’re definitely more than friendship, so I opted for slashes rather than ampersands. I could’ve added the pairings with ampersands too, but in all honesty, I kind of hate tag clutter. I’ve wanted to do this since the beginning, but since not all of the content had been written yet, I felt like I was luring people in with something that wasn’t yet readable. (I tagged the past-Stony right out of the gate more as a general warning to those who might not like the pairing as much, since that has an exponentially larger fanbase and counter-fanbase than, say, Steve/Sam.)  
> …I also just wanted to say that I have Steve Rogers/Vision fanfic under my belt.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through the whole run! Since this is updated on Christmas Eve, take this as your reminder to wear cute sweaters, drink lots of hot cocoa, and play a lot in the snow – do it for me, since it doesn’t get cold here!
> 
> Thanks ever so much for reading!


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